Captain America and the Invaders
by Tobias MacPhearson
Summary: Captain America and his misfit band of Invaders battle the Red Skull and the Nazis during World War II.
1. Chapter 1

The Age of Marvels: Chapter One

Captain America

and the

Invaders

Part One

I am Uatu, and your people know of me through legend as the Watcher. It is my task to observe the planet you call the Earth, and record its history through countless millennia. Using my vast powers, I can witness the future, the past, and the present, including all the possibilities and variations of what might have been, all in the blink of an eye. No lifeform or action escapes my unceasing gaze, and nothing remains hidden from me, for this is my single purpose, to observe, but never to interfere.

Long had I considered this a burden upon my life, placed unnecessarily on me by the whims of cosmic law...until I noticed an insignificant enigma, hitherto unknown on this world. This infinitesimal occurrence which sparked a new, fledgling kind of life, would eventually grow to become humanity, a race which immediately piqued my curiosity, never failing to command my interest as the eons labored on.

However, as the humans grew, so too did their virtues and vices. I became ever more mystified as I bore a sometimes unwilling witness to this young species who seemed capable of expressing such depths of pure love, even as they belabored to commit unparalleled atrocities upon one another. I would often ponder how such a primitive, ignorant, infantile race could harbor the capacity for such contradiction, possessing as they did the ability to explore upon and appreciate the highest peaks of light, and the bottomless chasms of darkness.

These things and more I pondered while the years turned to decades, and the decades turned to centuries, and mankind began to evolve, flourish, and expand upon the globe. I must admit that I began to develop a certain fondness for my charges, for despite my oath of non-interference, that is what I had begun to consider them, for I fear for their well-being even as I kept my silent vigil.

So it goes without saying that I have chronicled all the many ages of man, in all its manifestations, and all of the events thereof, but so far all have dimmed in comparison to what I have dubbed the Age of Marvels, a time where heroes of mythical might and boundless bravery and honor fought for the sake of those they loved. These heroes, through the decades which defined their age, succeeded in protecting their world from the horrors which threatened it, and in so doing, became as legendary and immortal as the values they swore to uphold.

Of all the ages it has been my duty to record, this has been the one that has finally convinced me of what the human race is composed of, that while some may be seduced into the vile quagmire of darkness, this darkness shall never extinguish the flame of hope which burns in the souls of all men.

And the dawn of this Age of Marvels began just before your people's second World War. But while my abilities grant me the power to write your history, my gifts do not extend to storytelling. Allow me to begin this fantastic tale at the door of an aging veteran, about to receive an unexpected visitor...

Present day

New Jersey

"Grampa wake up! Someone's at the door!"

Mr. Barnes awoke with a jolt and an unflattering snort. He'd been sleeping pretty soundly, and he had to take a look around before he remembered exactly where he was. It took a second to remind himself that he was living with his granddaughter's family now. He was in their living room, which was small, but very nicely furnished, where he had fallen asleep watching daytime television again, as he was in the habit of doing these days. He vaguely heard the door open down the hall, and slowly managed to turn his wheelchair so that he could face his new guest.

"Look Grampa, this is the nice man who came so far to see you," said his granddaughter, motioning towards the gentleman in the hallway.

Mr. Barnes had to crane his neck up uncomfortably high in order to get a good look at the visitor. He was obviously military, judging from his painstakingly clean uniform, muscular, taller than most, and had an air of command about him. He looked to be about middle aged, and was clearly experienced in the ways of the armed forces, as the cigarette in his mouth failed to draw attention away from the eyepatch on the left side of face that only partially hid the nasty scar which ran all the way vertically up through his hairline.

Unfortunately, Mr. Barnes' eyesight wasn't what it used to be, and he couldn't make out the soldier's name beneath the dozens of decorations on his chest, "Colonel Fury, United States Marines, reporting sir," ah there it was. "Pleasure to meet you," he said in a gruff voice.

"The pleasure's all mine," smiled Mr. Barnes. "Please have a seat on the couch here."

"Can I get you anything, Colonel Fury?" asked Mr. Barnes' granddaughter, politely.

"Please, just call me Nick, and no thanks," said the Colonel, sitting down heavily on the softly squeaky couch.

The sight of this young colonel made Mr. Barnes reflect on how he used to look, nothing like he looked now, that's for sure. While he'd never quite been as tall as Colonel Fury, in his prime he had been pretty handsome, muscular, and had even been something of a fox with the ladies. Of course now, at 90 years of age, he was extremely short and hunched over. His skin was spotty, his eyes and hearing were failing, his hair had all but deserted him, and he had hardly left his little wheelchair in years. Even his mind was beginning to call it quits, as lately he had spent most of his time sleeping in the living room between short intermissions of eating with his granddaughter's family.

"Well son, to what do I owe the honor?" Mr. Barnes asked with a genuine grin.

"Actually Mr. Barnes sir, I'm here about that interview we scheduled you for."

Mr. Barnes' eyes widened with recollection, "Over the telephone, yes, I remember."

Fury smiled as he set a small tape recorder on the table between them, "That's right. I'm here so you can tell me everything you remember about Steve Rogers."

Mr. Barnes closed his eyes and leaned back in his wheelchair, a slow smile spreading across his wrinkled face, "Boy, does _**that **_take me back. Well, let's see, I became pals with Steve back in the spring of '31. He was eight and I was ten..."

March, 1931

Brooklyn, New York City

Steve Rogers had always had one of those faces that nobody could ever quite recall. He was short, but not incredibly short. He had blonde hair, but not _**too **_blonde. His thick rimmed glasses _**did **_seem to eclipse his blue eyes and his face, but not to the point that it drew any more attention to him. And his somewhat shabby overalls would have seemed terribly out of place in the wrong settings, but in this neighborhood it only encouraged people to dismiss his presence all the more.

It comes as no surprise, therefore, to know that Steve was something of an outcast where he grew up. His parents weren't around very often, so when school let out Steve could usually be found at the library, reading or drawing about what he'd just read. He would stay there as late as he could, evacuating only when the librarian closed up for the night, and then because he didn't have a library card, Steve would pack up whatever pencil and paper scraps he'd managed to 'borrow' and hit the twilit streets of the city.

But he wasn't going home. Steve made sure to volunteer every day at the local halfway house. (If that was what you could call it.) Back then, there were no proper halfway houses, they were more like shoddy shacks which housed meager soup kitchens. And while the soup never went half as far as the nuns who served it wished, Steve would always help them with whatever they had. He had even made some friends while spending time with some of the riffraff, as he helped the nuns teach the ones who were willing, to read.

Understand that while Steve didn't have much, less than most anyway, he tried never to let it get him down. Nope, every day his head was filled with ideas from his favorite library books. His favorite writer was Mark Twain, and his stories about freedom and liberty were the fuel that Steve relied on to get him through the day.

At a very young age, Steve had been led to believe that things most people took for granted, like freedom and liberty, had been denied him at birth. No one cared about the rights of a scrawny, dirt poor street urchin from Brooklyn, and consequently felt no remorse for taking his liberties away. Furthermore, with his life spent under the thumb of an irrational, drunk, often enraged father, Steve had no conception of freedom whatsoever.

That all changed the first day Steve sneaked off to school. (His father still didn't know his son even attended school, and thought it was a waste of time.) His teacher had begun teaching her small class basic reading, writing, and arithmetic, and so enthralled had Steve become that it wasn't long before he began spending as much time as he could in the library, curled up in a remote corner of the floor with nothing but scraps of drawing paper and pencil, under the guidance of his mentor, Mark Twain.

Twain had instilled in Steve's heart that regardless of the circumstances or obstacles of one's birth, fundamental truths like freedom and liberty were values that no man could be denied. These were not privileges to be awarded to those lucky enough to be born with money and influence, as Steve had thought, but were rights common to every human being, available to anyone who simply had the courage and bravery to strive to achieve them no matter what.

As such, it was Steve Roger's lifelong goal to achieve this freedom and liberty that he had read so much about. Absolutely swearing away depression and sadness, Steve resolved to one day leave behind his father's horrible lifestyle, and to eventually make something grand of himself, and show the rest of the world that it could do the same. He simply refused to stop until not only had _**he **_found his own personal freedom, but had helped others discover it for themselves. That's why it was not uncommon to see this small, painfully thin, clearly poverty stricken young boy marching through the more dingy streets of New York every day with a smile on his face and a sunny disposition, completely unaware of the fact that he _**should **_be lonely and miserable like everyone else in the neighborhood. After all, there was not a doubt in his mind that this was only a temporary setback that he would soon leave completely behind, never to be seen again.

Unfortunately for Steve, some days his goal appeared harder to achieve than others. Sometimes it seemed like when he wasn't being beaten by his father for some imagined slight, he was being beaten by the local gang, which was mostly comprised of kids (usually orphans) who were only a few years older than himself. Now while Steve never ran away from them, always preferring to stand up for himself, this seemed to encourage his assailants more often than not. Many of these kids lived on the streets day and night, rain or snow, in whatever filthy alley they could find, while some of the luckier ones belonged to families who were so desperately poor that as soon as their children could walk, they were sent out into the city to beg and steal whatever money or food they could pilfer.

One of the worst bands of brigands was known as the Yancy Street Gang, and when they weren't out committing petty theft, they were busy shaking down other kids for money, or sometimes assaulting them just because they were bored. When times got really tough, they were even known to attack adults, and they were feared throughout New York as one of the toughest gangs around. They were currently led by James 'Bucky' Barnes, and if there was one things James enjoyed, it was picking on Steve.

It was 7:30 in the morning in New York City. The sun's rays were just beginning to peek into the lower parts of the alleys when it found Steve Rogers walking to school that day. As usual, he was a bit hungry because he hadn't had breakfast, a luxury usually not afforded in his family, but after a few years, his stomach had gotten used to it. Luckily, his father was still passed out in the living room, so he had been able to snag an apple before he rushed out the door that day. He enjoyed it when he was able to eat a lunch, it seemed to make his whole day a little easier. So that morning, Steve was feeling optimistic as he made his way through the already noisy streets that day.

His smile instantly vanished when he heard the all too familiar sounds of the Yancy Street Gang approaching. There were about ten of them, and if Steve's appearance generally looked a little rough, the gang members looked downright filthy. They were kicking around a couple of soda bottles through the alley, clearly looking to score themselves a morning snack. They were centered around an older boy who, while not that much bigger than the rest of them, clearly boasted quite a bit more confidence. He had dark brown hair, brown eyes, and was not a little muscular. His ratty, stained clothing did little to hide his various small bruises and cuts, which he liked to keep on display as a sign of masculinity. Worst of all, the smirk which marked his face turned into a mischievous grin when he caught sight of Steve.

"Well well well, what have we here? Why, if it ain't Steve the Scabber!" jeered James. "How you doin', Scab?"

Steve preferred to keep his mouth shut, ignoring the gang as he kept walking straight ahead.

"What? You ain't got time to spend with yer old friends from Yancy Street?" James asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Boys, why don'tcha help make the Scabber over here a little more sociable?"

Steve found himself instantly surrounded by the other boys, all of whom were grinning in a decidedly unkindly manner. Some of them even found it necessary to flick open the short blades they carried. This 'subtle' threat was not lost on Steve, but he wasn't afraid. He encountered the Yancy Street Gang on an almost daily basis, and while they weren't anything to be taken lightly, he knew how to deal with them well enough to avoid any broken bones...usually.

"So Scab, whatcha got in the knapsack?" asked James, making his way into the circle around Steve.

"What's it to you?" Steve asked in veiled defiance. "And while you're at it, stop calling me Scab."

James feigned shock, "But that's what you are, little Stevie. Yer an annoying scab that we have to keep picking at day after day that just won't come off. Now do something useful for once and hand over whatever you got in the knapsack, _**Scab**_, and then get lost."

"Listen hotshot, I'm not giving you my knapsack, so you can just shove off," Steve said, bravely staring James right in his eyes.

"Hotshot? The name's _**Barnes**_, and don't you forget it," James growled, menacingly.

Steve grinned, "That right, pee-wee? Because that doesn't seem to really fit you. How 'bout shortstuff? Or Tiny? Smiley? Tiger? Sunshine? Bucky?"

James had heard enough, "Alright Gang, grab the knapsack!"

"You mean this knapsack?" asked Steve, calmly holding up the sack. "Good luck with that."

Before any of the kids could get their hands on him, Steve had thrown the knapsack as hard as he could across the busy street, and while the Yancy's eyes were still on the sack, he'd already pushed through their circle and bolted away. In the second it took them to figure out what he'd done, Steve had already gotten a significant head start on them, and while he was a little scrawny, that boy sure could run. It didn't take long for James and his gang to give up the chase and start looking for the knapsack, and Steve continued unmolested on his way to school.

Even though he'd had to give up his lunch, which meant that he'd have to go hungry until dinner, Steve smiled to himself as he rounded the last corner and caught sight of his schoolhouse. He hated the Yancies and everything they did, and that's why he'd promised himself that he'd stand up to them every chance he got, no matter the consequences. Yeah they scared Steve, but if a couple bruises was the cost of sticking it to them, he could pay that price. His self respect was too valuable a thing to lose it to punks like the Yancy Street Gang.

Unfortunately for Steve, he wasn't done dealing with the Yancies that day. After school he proceeded to the library as usual, where he lost himself in his drawings and his books, his imagination dwelling on the future, where things would surely be better than they were now. And after that, he helped again down at the halfway house, serving soup and sharing a meal with passers by. Steve found that while the homeless could be quite nasty to New York as a whole, once he had earned their trust, they came to think of him as one of their own. He'd shortly become something of the halfway house's son, and its regulars came to regard him as their own child, while Steve grew to love them like his own family.

It was as twilight was already descending upon the city that Steve's day became more eventful. He was walking home from the halfway house (the time of day that he hated the most because it meant he had to see his father), when he head angry voices coming from one of the darker alleys. Now, even Steve had learned that it was best to not interfere when things looked too dangerous, and he'd often heeded this advice by sometimes running several blocks to catch the nearest police officer in times like these; but the voices he heard came from a kid, and so he decided to investigate, since it was probably just the Yancy Street Gag roughing up another poor boy. Steve was only half right.

Peeking into the alley from behind a corner, Steve could distinctly make out four people in the dim evening light. Three of them were bigger, probably teenagers, and they were surrounding a smaller boy, and it was his voice that Steve had heard from the street. The biggest one, who was standing opposite the boy, was clearly the leader, and was brandishing a knife. The boy himself was terrified, quivering in fear, and appeared to be on the verge of tears.

"Where's our money, kid?" asked the teen with the knife, who was obviously not playing around.

"I-I-I-I ain't got it," whimpered the kid, his back to the hard brick wall.

"Well where _**is **_it?" asked the knife guy, in a quiet, more sinister tone.

"I-I dunno...sir," answered the kid, his voice a squeak of what it usually was.

"Well then, what are we gonna do about that?"

The kid was clearly about to break down, "I swear, if you just give me a...a week, I could have your money back to you!" pleaded the boy. "...Double your money, double!"

"I don't think so, junior," said the knife guy again. "You see, when you lose our money there are...penalties. And when something like this happens, we figure that we gotta send a message to all yer little friends out there, (he said, poking the knife suddenly at the boy, who yelped in fear) 'cause we can't afford fer little accidents like this to keep happening."

With that said, the three men began slowly advancing on the boy. Steve's eyes widened with horror. He'd always been afraid of something like this happening to him. The Yancies were nothing compared to these guys. As opposed to the bullies from Yancy Street, if you crossed or stiffed these real gangs, you were liable to wind up in a hospital...or worse. New York gangs had a real reputation for working people over, and Steve was about to find that out first hand.

"No, please...don't! No!" shouted the boy, panic and cold fear replacing his last shred of rational thought as the three teens began to strike him again and again.

Something in the kid's last protests triggered an alarm in Steve's mind. His voice sounded familiar, almost like...Steve's eyes widened in shock as he strained his eyes against the fading light to catch a better view of the boy, but even though he couldn't get a clear look at him through the teenagers, he now recognized his voice clearly. They wee beating none other than James Barnes, the leader of the Yancy Street Gang.

Steve Rogers would always remember the next moment as one of the strangest, and yet most defining, moments of his life. Rationally, he would recall thinking that James had always been nothing but trouble for him. James had insulted, bullied, demeaned, and stolen from Steve, often giving him cuts and bruises which hindered him for weeks on end. But for some reason, on the other hand, Steve just couldn't stand there and do nothing while someone that he knew, a boy just like him, was being heartlessly assaulted in front of him.

Fueled by forces he did not understand, feeling conflicting emotions of rage and fear, and uttering a primal shout in a voice he didn't even know he had, Steve flung himself into the alley headfirst. The world around him blurred as he connected solidly with the teenagers, catching them utterly by surprise and knocking them off their victim. Not stopping his attack even for an instant, Steve threw himself on the nearest teen, beating him ceaselessly in a flurry of blind anger.

"What the...!" exclaimed Knife, jumping to his feet again. "Who the heck are you?"

It was an awkward scene. James was still backed against the wall, breathing heavily, covered in large bruises and deep cuts, while two of the teenagers stood up, looking down on the ground in confusion and irritation more than anything else. Steve was still on top of the third unlucky thug, pummeling him repeatedly while the teen tried to get a grip on him. Regrettably, Steve was still unaware that his small fists were doing his opponent virtually no harm whatsoever, as the older boy's continued squirming was completely due to his efforts to capture the kid.

"Dave, cut the crap, just grab the brat and get up," barked Knife, rolling his eyes.

Steve was forced to stop fighting as he felt strong arms bind him. Despite his struggles, he was forced to stand up along with the teenager who had restrained him. But his straining soon stopped as fear gripped his heart again at the sight of what Knife had just pulled out from his jacket.

The teenager pointed his gun straight at James, who was still cowering against the wall, "Alright, I've had it with _**you**_," he said, cocking the gun. "Now I don't know who the heck this other one is (he said, nodding to Steve), but I've officially lost patience for you. Either cough up the money you owe us, or I'll make sure you never have the chance to steal from anyone else, ever again."

James was weeping openly now, his blatant terror rendering him almost incoherent, "I t-told you, I don't h-h-h-have it!" he pleaded, visibly shivering where he stood.

Knife replied in a chillingly soft tone, "Well then, I guess you should say yer prayers then, huh?"

If Steve's previous outburst was odd, then this one was downright surreal. Without even thinking about it, in one instantaneous moment of desperation, Steve broke free from his captor's grip, having taken him by surprise, and sped towards the gun. Time seemed to slow down for Steve as he leaped between James and the thug. He could see the punk pull the trigger of his gun, he could hear the blast as the bullet left the barrel, and he could even see the smoke pour from the firearm, but it was as if it was all happening to someone else, like it was a dream or something.

Despite all that, Steve never remembered being hit by the bullet...but James did. James never forgot how Steve's body shook with the impact of the projectile, or the guttural almost-grunt that came out of his throat, or the way that his eyes flashed open with a horrible combination of surprise and dismay while his broken body hit the pavement beneath him. He never forgot the almost inane amount of blood that began pouring from the young boy's chest, or the unsettling, unnatural stillness that gripped his body while he lay there.

But most of all, James never forgot how Steve's lifeless eyes stared listlessly up into the sky, but never seemed to see a thing. And as he fell to his knees, crying unceasingly over the stained and bleeding form of the one who protected him, he couldn't help but marvel at how the boy he'd wasted so much time persecuting, had spent his life to save James'.


	2. Chapter 2

The Age of Marvels: Chapter Two

Captain America

and the

Invaders

Part Two

_**During the darkest days of World War II, America stood united against the threat of the Nazi Germany war machine. Our Greatest Generation sacrificed everything in order to stem the forces of oppression from overrunning our very planet, led under the fearless banner of the greatest warrior of our time, Captain America. Inspired by his courageous example, and with the aid of his misfit band of Invaders, Captain America led the forces of freedom to victory, changing his world forever.**_

October, 2000

New Jersey

The home of Mr. Barnes

Colonel Fury leaned back on the couch and grinned, "So the kid took a bullet for you, huh? I can't believe it. At that age, I wouldn't have taken a bullet for my own mom."

Mr. Barnes nodded his head as he took a sip from his tea, "Steve was always a remarkable guy. He was the strongest person I ever knew."

The living room grew silent as Colonel Fury watched Mr. Barnes' eyes lose a little of their luster while he began to stare at the floor, lost in his memories. A sad smile seemed to grow on his wrinkled face as the old man's mind wandered through the past. At his age, what with everything he'd been through, sometimes the past seemed more real to him than the present. He knew he made his family worry about him sometimes, but his time was over, and he deserved to spend what little he still had reliving his glory days, even if only in his own head.

After a while, Mr. Barnes continued, "He was so strong, sometimes I thought that he couldn't even keep it all to himself, and it began to rub off on everyone around him. He had a way of bringing out the best in people, of helping them to achieve things _**they **_didn't even think they could do. And all Steve had to do was just _**be **_there. He never actually had to do anything that special."

"It was just his spirit, his way of thinking," explained Mr. Barnes, softly now, almost as if he was talking to himself. "It just never occurred to him that he could fail...at anything. And as long as he was around, he helped everyone else feel that way too."

Colonel Fury leaned forward, peering ever so slightly at the old man confined to the wheelchair in front of him. What must it have been like to spend time with a man like Steve Rogers, who could inspire such feelings of loyalty and courage just by his simple presence? He found himself wishing devoutly that he had been able to see him in person, even once. What he would have given for that opportunity...

Mr. Barnes looked up at Fury earnestly, "See, people think it was the damn serum that turned Steve Rogers into Captain America, but while the formula gave him his _**powers**_, he'd already been a hero for years before that."

"What made Captain America a legend wasn't his abilities, it was his personality, his spirit...his soul."

March, 1932

Brooklyn, New York City

Steve: Age 8

James: Age 10

The first thing Steve noticed was the growing pain in his shoulder. It didn't hurt too bad, but he was concerned, because he could tell that it _**should **_be hurting more. That was when he realized that he didn't know where he was, which further concerned him. He decided it would be a good idea to open his eyes, but he found that they didn't want to open for him. This presented a slight problem. A minute and a half later, Steve had finally finished slowly forcing his eyes to open, which was when the full extent of his exhaustion finally hit him, not unlike being hit by a truck. Steve let out a soft moan. He didn't _**remember **_being hit by a truck. Where was he again?

Looking around, Steve could see that he was in a small bed. Next to him on one side was an I.V. Drip, and a dingy green curtain dividing the room in half. The walls were bare and there was a small leak in the ceiling in the corner, and on his other side was a window which was open to the city air. In front of the window was a small table with a flower in a vase next to a Bible. Was he in the hospital?

Steve checked his throbbing shoulder and was surprised to find that it was wrapped heavily in bandages along with half his chest! What the heck was going on? Suddenly he remembered James and the alley. He remembered the teenagers, and how he blindly tackled them in a futile effort to defend the other boy. What had he been thinking? Then he remembered the gun, and the last thing Steve could recall, he had flung himself in front of it. He really had been shot, hadn't he?

Steve turned his head as the curtain parted and James Barnes walked through with a soggy hotdog in one hand and a soda in the other. He glanced Steve's way as he sat down and started munching on his food.

"You look half dead," he said between obnoxiously loud bites. "But still a heck of a lot better than yesterday. I hope you're proud, you had half the hospital in a panic until you stopped bleeding."

"What happened?" croaked Steve, in a voice hoarse from lack of use.

James rolled his eyes, "You don't remember? Well there I was in that dark alley, yakkin' it up with these three yahoos from this other gang, see. I had everything under control until you flew in, screamin' and hollerin' enough to beat the band. Anyway, next thing I know I hear a gun go off, an' you must have tripped in front of it or something, I dunno."

Steve couldn't help but grin in his bed as he heard James' version of the story, "What happened after that?"

James scratched his head, clearly uncomfortable, "Well, th' noise from the gunshot must'a been louder than I thought, because a bunch of people from the street started to make a scene and scared away the teenagers. So there I was, stuck in an alley with _**you**_. And you weren't any help just laying there bleeding on the ground, so I had to go an' call the police to send you to the hospital."

"I've been sittin' here just doing nothing but dying of boredom for _**two whole days **_waiting fer you to wake up. The only good thing to come from this whole trip was that I've never eaten this good in my whole life," he said, nodding to the half eaten hotdog. "The nurses around here go _**crazy **_for a couple of cute kids like us."

"So you're okay, then?" Steve asked, quietly.

James' expression instantly softened, "Yeah...yeah, I'm okay."

The small hospital room grew quiet. Steve could hear sounds coming from outside, through the window. But the sounds of the city seemed far away, so far away. He realized that he hadn't known how much those noises felt like home to him until now. Somehow they made him feel a lot better.

"Why'd you do it?" James suddenly asked, breaking the silence with his abrupt question.

Steve took a second to think before answering, "I'm not sure," he finally confessed. "You're just a kid like me, and I guess I couldn't stand the thought of you getting killed right there without trying to do _**something**_."

"But-but-but that's just the thing!" shouted James, jumping up from his chair. "You couldn't do _**anything**_! There. Wasn't. Anything. You. Could. Do."

"Sure there was. It worked, didn't it?"

"It was crazy!" James replied, throwing his hands in the air. "Why would you even _**think **_to do that for me? All I've ever done is beat you and pick on you for your entire life. I steal your food and money! Why would you take a bullet for me?"

Steve glanced down at his sheets as his shoulder began aching with renewed vigor, "Because we're the same, James."

"No we're not! We're not the same! We've never been the same! I'm tough, I'm cool, I've got tons of friends, I'm the leader of the Yancy Street Gang for pete's sake. You're just some crazy little scabber who hides in the library all day! What could we possibly have in common?"

Steve looked up directly into James' eyes, "We're both lonely."

That stopped James cold in his tracks, "I've seen you with the Yancie's, James. Sure when you're out in the city, beating up on kids and causing trouble you're just like them, part of the gang, but every chance you get to be alone you take it. I see you sitting by yourself all the time, doing nothing, staring off into space. We've known each other since we were babies, right?"

James said nothing as he turned around to look out the window, his back to Steve, "You hate that gang, don't you?" Steve asked, never taking his eyes off the other boy. "You hate those other kids and you hate yourself for leading them. But your fear is stronger than your hatred, your fear of being alone. That's why you're still with them. Even though you despise yourself for it, being with them is still better than being by yourself. The only problem is, since you have nothing _**really **_in common with them, you still feel lonely even when you're surrounded by the Yancies."

"You just got _**all **_the answers, don't ya?" asked James, in a small, cracked voice, trying to hide his face from Steve while he wiped his tears away.

"Well, I read a lot of books," Steve answered, causing both the boys to laugh a little.

"Why don't you leave the Yancies, James?"

James barked out a laugh, "And do what? Hang around with you all day? I ain't got no family, no real friends, no money, no nothing! There's nothing for me out there without the Yancies!"

"I don't have any of those things either, but I'm happy," Steve explained, thoughtfully. "I'm trying to make a better life for myself. I'm not living like this forever."

James hung his head, still looking out the window, "Yeah, well good luck with that," he mumbled, almost involuntarily.

"I bet that's what you want, too," said Steve, hopefully. "You're a smart guy, James. Why don't we just hang out sometime? You might not have to be by yourself so often. What do you have to lose?"

James turned away from the window to face Steve, a tentative grin on his face, and his expression free of tears, "Yeah...okay. I guess we could give it a whirl...just until you're out of the hospital."

Steve's mouth spread into a wide grin, despite the pain he still felt from his shoulder, "Hey, you gonna eat the rest of that hotdog?"

"Sorry, Scab, this one's got my name on it."

"Steve. My name's Steve, James."

James looked up to meet his friend's gaze, "Sure Steve, you can have some...just don't get any of your _**nerd **_on my half, I don't want to get infected."

"Yeah, that'd sure be a shame, wouldn't it?"

By the time Steve and James left the hospital three days later, they'd already become fast friends. It turned out that they had a lot more in common than they'd realized, and neither one of them had ever connected with someone the way they had during their forced stay in the hospital.

However, Steve worried that once they were free to do as they wished, he and James would fall back into their roles as adversaries, but thankfully, this was not the case. James made a special point to hang out with Steve every day, much to Steve's relief. Over time, James found himself spending more and more time with his new friend, and less and less time with the Yancies, and while this was a little disturbing, the Yancies being the only family he'd ever known, he soon realized that he was happier than he'd been in a very long time.

Steve often commented on how smart James would be if he only applied himself, and soon James found himself being taught how to read and write. The really weird thing was...he was enjoying it. He was actually pretty good at all that stuff, and before he knew it, he was even joining Steve at school, at the library, and even (shudder) during his homework.

Over the next few years Steve and James became inseparable. They rose to the best in their class at school, and helped out at the halfway house every single day. The Yancies pretty much left them alone, out of respect for their former leader, so they never had to worry about that. As they began to grow up, they didn't even have trouble landing jobs, since they were two intelligent, (somewhat) strapping young boys who knew how to read, they were open to pretty much any jobs the city had to offer.

In time, the two became roommates, renting a small apartment in a nicer neighborhood in Brooklyn. James landed a job he really enjoyed, working as the manager of the halfway house, while Steve actually began working part time at the library he'd spent so much of his childhood in. The rest of Steve's time was devoted to art school, where he spent many blissful days learning the ins and outs of the finer points of artwork.

Yes, life was good for the two young men. James' self-esteem had never been higher, since he realized that he wasn't as trapped as he had always thought himself to be. Turned out that all he needed was someone to give him a chance, to inspire James to apply himself and turn his life around. In fact, he could barely recognize himself as the gang leader that he had once been, and he couldn't be happier.

On the other hand, Steve Rogers couldn't really claim to have changed that much, at least compared to James. He was still the diminutive, intelligent, artsy shrimp that he'd always been, who was still maybe a little too bold for his own good. However, his positive attitude and strong spirit seemed to draw people to him, and as he grew older, he found himself surrounded by like minded friends, much to James' amazement.

Unfortunately, the rest of the world didn't share the optimistic enthusiasm of Steve and James. The nation had long been embroiled in a great depression, which had rendered it financially destitute and crippled in more ways than one. Times were hard for the people of New York, but our heroes just seemed to roll with the punches, and the struggles of their nation didn't seem to affect them overly much.

Across the world, the global situation wasn't much better. After World War I, Germany and its neighbors were in a state of abject poverty, and this had set the stage for civil unrest in most of Europe. The economic depression which had engulfed the United States so completely had struck with double the potency at other countries who had already been struggling with their own issues beforehand.

That said, in the spring of 1939, America was dismayed to find Europe engaged in a _**massive **_war. But while the country swore to stay out of it, the world was quickly becoming a smaller place, and an isolationist state of mind was becoming more impossible to enforce as every year went by. And even though Steve, and the populace at large, passionately rooted for the Allied forces in Europe, they steadfastly refused to become entangled in more of their problems.

Of course, that all ended during the close of 1941, when a naval base in Hawaii was sneak attacked by overwhelming Japanese aerial forces. America was _**shocked**_, reeling from an attack that caught it completely by surprise. War became imminent, and the nation spent the next few months gearing itself for a conflict that would change the world forever.

No one could have been more excited about fighting the Axis powers than Steve. For the last three years, he and James had attended black and white picture shows depicting the struggles in Europe on a regular basis. This had prompted Steve to adopt the unpopular view that America should intervene in the war, as he viewed the nation's policy of non-interference as cowardly. But that was just how Steve was, if someone was in trouble, he considered it his duty to assist, a habit that those around him grudgingly admired.

So yes, Steve was happy that his country which meant so much to him was finally stepping up to the plate, for more reasons than one. The very first thing Steve did as soon as he heard they were at war, was to march right down to the nearest army recruitment office to sign the heck up...at which point he was immediately turned away.

Steve couldn't believe it. Possibly the greatest threat his country had ever known, and he couldn't help. All his life he had wanted to achieve great things. He wanted to prove that just because he was born on the street, he didn't have to _**die **_on the street. And what greater honor was there for a guy like Steve, than the honor of fighting for his country. There was no greater imaginable way for him to stand up for his beliefs, to prove to himself that he could change his life and his world, than to pick up arms and fight for those beliefs on the battlefield.

But then they turned him away. The military rejected him. They said that he was just too puny to fight in the war, and that crushed Steve. See, he'd been rejected for many things in his life, but never something that had interfered so directly with his goals.

Steve left the recruitment office depressed and downtrodden, until James suggested that they begin working out together every day, so that in a few months he could try again and _**then **_be accepted. Steve eagerly agreed, and a few months later, he confidently returned to the recruitment office again. He was summarily rejected less than five minutes later.

Unfortunately, much to James' dismay, Steve's physique didn't lend itself to hard physical labor. Even though they'd worked out for quite a while every day, Steve hadn't progressed as fast as he had hoped. The military simply couldn't use him, he was just too scrawny.

But Steve wouldn't give up. He continued working out every day, confident that he would one day be accepted. In the meantime, Steve and James participated in hanging up posters, helping with food donation drives, and any endeavor they could to help the war effort. He donated his time, and whatever little money he had to helping the 'boys overseas', and pretty soon he'd built quite a reputation among the community as the most enthusiastic little nerd around.

By the time Steve paid his third visit to the office, the entire neighborhood was rooting for him. And when he returned form the office an hour later with a broad smile on his face, his friends all began clapping and cheering loudly...until Steve announced that he'd been rejected again.

Three years and two more visits to the recruitment office later, Steve had become something of a local hero. The older citizens depended on him to help around their houses, doing favors for them and whatnot, while the younger kids looked up to him as a role model. Steve didn't realize it, but James had long noticed that despite his small size and nerdy appearance, Steve had become a staple of the community. Everyone admired and respected him, and he had more friends than he knew what to do with. Thanks to his hard work and dedication, Steve had earned the life that he'd always wished for. But he still needed to prove something to himself, and so his trips to the recruitment office continued.

January 1944 was a dark time in the American war effort. The Pacific theater was slowly seeing some improvement, but there appeared to be no hope for the European front. Germany had waltzed through all of Western Europe without opposition and was busy reducing Britain to cinders and ashes, despite their continued resistance. Meanwhile, regardless of the losses both sides were suffering, it looked like Russia would soon fall to the Nazis as well. Worse, it seemed that no matter what America tried, it could not grasp a foothold in Europe from which to oppose the Germans. Washington feared that without aid, London and Moscow would fall, and then it would only be a matter of time before war was brought to the very shores of the United States itself.

It was in this dark atmosphere that Steve found himself during his latest trip to the recruitment office. This time he was accompanied by James, who suggested that maybe if he went along with Steve, the recruitment officer might be a little more lenient.

"Oh, hello Steve, and how are we doing today?" asked the officer behind the desk as the door opened.

"I'm fine, thanks Frank," Steve answered while James tried to dismiss the fact that he was on a first name basis with the recruitment officer. "This is my friend, James."

"You guys know each other?" asked James, taking a seat.

Officer Frank laughed, "Yeah, we have a whole _**file **_on Steve here. So what can I do for you two? (As if I didn't already know.)"

"Well Frank," said Steve, confidently leaning up against the desk with a slight smirk on his face. "I'm here to enlist in the U.S. Military."

Frank rolled his eyes, "Steve, do we really need to go through this _**again**_?"

"We certainly do, my good man," said Steve, still smiling, while James shook his head behind him.

Frank got up from his desk to rummage through his file cabinet, "Steve, at some point I gotta ask, why do you keep doing this to yourself over and over?"

"Don't you know, Frank? I'm prime army material, my friend," joked Steve, flippantly. "I was _**born **_to kill me some Nazis."

Frank became serious as he turned to face Steve, "Listen son, I don't know what you're expecting, but do I _**really **_have to be responsible for turning you away _**again**_?"

Steve continued smiling as his eyes gleamed in determination, "Frank, I work out _**every day**_, I'm surrounded everywhere I go by people who are suffering and worried because of this war, I have studied every _**shred **_of information I can find about the Nazis, and I will not stop until I am allowed to do something, _**anything **_to help."

"We can't keep doing this, Steve. I've got a lot of things to do, and can't spare the time to keep testing you like this," said Frank, quietly, from behind his desk.

"I know Frank, and I"m sorry, but I don't care if I have to come here every single day until the end of the war, because I will. I'll do whatever I have to do to help people who need me, to do my part to stop the Nazis from destroying even more lives," said Steve, staring coolly at Frank. "I haven't come this far to be turned away now."

Frank returned his stare unblinking, while James tugged at his collar uncomfortably in the corner, "I'm sorry Steve, there's nothing I can do."

Before Steve could reply, a gravelly voice from the other side of the room interrupted him, "But there might be something that _**I **_can do."

Steve and James turned around to see a short, older man standing in what they had assumed to be the doorway of a closet. He was holding a clipboard, wearing a white labcoat, and had crazy, equally white hair. His large glasses partially obscured his eyes, but that didn't matter, because all the other eyes in the room were drawn to his slightly crooked smile.

"What do you say, Steve? How would you like to join the army?" asked the old man, his smile now coming off as slightly off-kilter.

Steve didn't even hesitate for one instant, "Sir, you've got your man!"


	3. Chapter 3

The Age of Marvels: Chapter Three

Captain America

and the

Invaders

Part Three

_** During the darkest days of World War II, America stood united against the threat of the Nazi Germany war machine. Our Greatest Generation sacrificed everything in order to stem the forces of oppression from overrunning our very planet, led under the fearless banner of the greatest warrior of our time, Captain America. Inspired by his courageous example, and with the aid of his misfit band of Invaders, Captain America led the forces of freedom to victory, changing his world forever.**_

October 2000

New Jersey

The home of Mr. Barnes

"Just like that, huh?" Colonel Fury laughed, smoking heavily from his cigar. "You were accepted into the most exclusive program in the United States Military that easily?"

"Well son, remember that by that time we'd literally been trying to get into the army for years," Mr. Barnes reminded him, chuckling to himself until it brought on a coughing fit.

After a short pause to catch his breath, he continued with his story, "Apparently this particular project was keeping tabs on new recruits and the like, in order to locate better candidates for its research."

"And you two were okay with being lab rats for the government?" Fury asked, cynically.

This made Mr. Barnes laugh again, "Back then, the boys in the government weren't part of some nameless, faceless, untrustworthy organization. They were just one of us, and we all felt like we had to do our parts to help the war effort."

"At the beginning of the war, after Pearl Harbor, boys were _**volunteering **_to get sent to those hellholes overseas. Steve just always felt like he got let out, I guess," explained Mr. Barnes, shrugging his shoulders. Regardless of the reasons, that was the year that everything changed for us."

January, 1944

Undisclosed military location just outside New York City

Steve: Age 24

James: Age 26

The shuttle ground to a halt after about half an hour of travel. Steve Rogers, James Barnes, and the only slightly odd looking doctor quickly got up and exited, leaving it in the corridor behind them. Not for the first time, Steve reflected that this was probably the strangest day in his life. When he had decided to pay another visit to the recruitment office, if successful, he and James would have been on their way to the nearest boot camp training center the next day. He'd _**never **_imagined that they'd immediately be whisked into what he'd _**thought **_was a janitorial closet that led directly underground.

The closet had actually been a secret booth, which allowed the occupant to see into the recruitment station without being seen himself. Upon entering, Steve found that a ladder led down from the booth into an underground softly lit corridor in which a small shuttle waited. The doctor had shooed Steve and James into the shuttle and the three of them had traveled down the featureless corridor for a while. The doctor spent his time ruffling through the papers on his clipboard, sometimes smiling and chuckling to himself in a somewhat disturbing manner (especially when his crazy glasses and hair were taken into account), which left Steve and James to stare out the window and occasionally trade nervous glances.

Now Steve and James were walking along a smaller corridor, trying to keep pace with the doctor's rapid gait, "Hurry up now, move along," he kept saying, unexpectedly making a sharp turn down a side hallway and wrenching open the door there.

What Steve and James saw when they walked through that door took their breath away. They were looking at an _**immense **_facility, _**decades **_ahead of its time. Constructed completely underground, using methods they hadn't even conceived, was an ultra-sophisticated complex of unheard of proportions. The one room they were in was at least the size of a football field and was several stories high. Brightly lit, with the silver sheen of the metallic instruments adding to the effect, the newcomer's eyes were instantly dazzled. Everywhere they looked they could see people in white labcoats and goggles constructing machinery for who knows what. There had to be _**hundreds **_of them, all working diligently, sometimes shouting to be heard over the noise of machinery humming, whirring, cutting, or just...computing? Steve and James couldn't believe their eyes.

"I am Doctor Erskine," said the crazy scientist, deftly slapping on a pair of goggles. "And welcome to Project Rebirth."

James started to say, "Tha-,"

"Put these on," interrupted the doctor, handing out two more goggles for his charges. "As you can see, Project Rebirth is a top secret, underground facility funded by the government in order to research methods of assisting the military's efforts to win this war."

Dr. Erskine began walking as he spoke, apparently not waiting to ask the boys to follow him, "The complex is divided into four main sections, each over the size of a professional football stadium and housing some of the most advanced technology in the world. This is the research and development module, which is in charge of designing and constructing equipment that is largely unique to this facility, as our needs demand products not available anywhere else. There is also the housing module, where your quarters will be located, the training module, which is where you'll be spending most of your time, and most importantly, the laboratory module, which you'll visit at a later date."

Erskine stopped in front of a high-tech door, with Steve and James behind him, still baffled beyond speech. After pressing a button, the door opened, revealing a small, bare room. The three of them walked inside and the doctor pressed another small button and the metallic doors slowly began closing.

"Uh...what's going on?" James asked, wondering if the doddering old man really _**was**_ nuts for just leading them into what amounted to another closet.

"Oh, sorry," Erskine apologized sheepishly. "We call his an elevator. It's...like an ultra-modern staircase. You two might want to hold onto the railings on the walls. This could feel a little funny."

"Aah!" yelped Steve and James, as a nauseating feeling of vertigo enveloped them.

Quickly grabbing the railing, the two boys straightened themselves, trying to ignore the laughing scientist. Their discomfort didn't last long, because soon they heard a soft ping and the doors opened again, revealing completely different surroundings. Despite their utter confusion, Steve and James followed the doctor down the new hallway through a door and into a modest office, where they gladly sat down in front of a big desk, grateful for a room that seemed slightly familiar.

Steve had never felt this unfocused and off balance. He felt like he'd stepped into a whole new world, one where nothing was like he knew and all the rules had been changed. He was scared to death and knew that he hadn't signed up for this, but these feelings were swallowed by his confidence and utter assurance that he would excel at whatever challenges waited for him here. And his sense of anticipation for the future eclipsed any fear he might be experiencing. _**Now **_he was going places, _**that **_was for sure!

Dr. Erskine took a seat behind his large, _**extremely **_cluttered wooden desk, and folded his hands together, "Before we begin, do you have any questions?"

James eagerly raised his hand, "Ooh, can we go on the elevator-stairs again? I want another ride!"

Erskine closed his eyes and sighed, "I have a question," said Steve, taking the doctor's mind away from the clearly disappointed James.

"Don't you have any papers to sign or documents you want us to fill out?" Steve asked, thoughtfully. "I mean, we've already seen so much of your facility, and frankly, I really need to know what the heck is going on."

Dr. Erskine adopted a more serious, but comforting tone, "Okay boys, I understand that this whole scenario can be a little overwhelming, so I want you both to just take a couple of deep breaths, and try to keep an open mind. This will all make a lot more sense if you can be calm about it."

After a short pause, Erskine continued, "Project Rebirth operates at the highest levels of the military, so it is _**beyond **_top secret. This means that if you breathe a _**word **_about this to anyone else, you will spend the rest of your life in prison."

Steve and James gulped.

"It also means that we are not subject to the laws and restrictions that other governmental bodies are bound by. In essence, we make our own rules, and are answerable only to the President and his personal advisers," Erskine explained. "So when you agreed to accompany me back a the recruitment office, that was all we needed to induct you into our organization. There's no going back now. We have all the papers and information on you that we need, so we're not hampered by the registration process that the military at large is."

"I'm sorry, I still don't understand," James interjected, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Why did you even decide to pick the two of us? Do you just wait in that little booth at the recruitment office all day and randomly pounce on people when you get bored?"

Dr. Erskine threw his head back and laughed, causing his wavy, uncontrollable white hair to bounce around ridiculously, "Of course not, son! I'm a busy man, I've got things to do! No, we _**monitor **_several recruitment offices and boot camp facilities, and if anything of interest shows up, we take a peek."

"So why peek at us?" asked Steve, aware that his question came out a little funny.

Erskine didn't seem to notice, "Well, that's the million dollar question, isn't it?" he asked, leaning back in his chair as he began fiddling with he pen. "As I said before, Project Rebirth's mission is to assist the United States military. We do that by designing and producing different types of high-tech weapons and other whatsits in order to technologically outmaneuver the Nazis and stay one step ahead of them."

Steve nodded, struggling to understand the point the doctor was trying to get at.

"Our most promising program (meaning the one we get the most funding for, and thereby the most important one), is codenamed Rebirth, and it's the foundation for this entire operation," explained Erskine. "Rebirth's mission is to develop a group of advanced soldiers for the military, a soldier that is stronger, smarter, faster, and more deadly than the common soldier. A _**super **_soldier, if you will."

Steve and James were rendered nearly speechless, "How...how...how would you even _**begin **_to accomplish something like that?" Steve asked.

Erskine continued playing with his pen, absentmindedly, "You see, the human body is composed, at its most fundamental level, of DNA strands, and these strands are basically what makes you...you. Your DNA (which is so small that it cannot be seen by human eyes,) dictates the shade of your skin, your height, your eye and hair color, what diseases you're more susceptible too, and even your mental and physical acuity. It is passed down from your parents and ancestors, is found in your blood, and is so intrinsically complex that we could spend a lifetime studying it and still not unravel all its secrets."

Steve and James' jaws dropped open in astonishment.

"So far, we have been unsuccessful at manipulating an individual's DNA," said Erskine, flipping his pen up into the air. "Not only have we not achieved our goal of positively enhancing an individual through his DNA, but more often than not we have caused the accidental unraveling of the DNA strand itself and the eventual death of the subject."

At this point Dr. Erskine put the pen down and quickly leaned forward to reassure the boys, "_**However**_, at this point I can assure you that we've almost got it," he said, flashing a smile that was intended to be confident, but just came off as creepy. "By the time you two are ready for the test, I'm sure we'll have it. Besides, we haven't _**lost **_a test subject in months."

Steve and James gave each other an anxious look from their seats in front of Erskine as he continued talking, "Now, that's my job. _**Your **_jobs are quite a bit easier. You will be joining the small group of new recruits over in the training module, where you will begin a three month long intense _**accelerated **_boot camp program. Now, regular boot camp lasts a little over a month...your small group will achieve that several weeks sooner, while the next few months you will be drilling more advanced forms of combat. All this, of course, will take place under more strenuous conditions, meaning less sleep, less food, and less breaks, in order to prepare you both for the DNA test itself, and hopefully your new life as super soldiers."

Steve's brain could barely wrap itself around what he was hearing, but despite this, Erskine's speech continued, "However, I want to _**stress **_that your instructors are going to be working _**with **_you, and I will _**personally **_be watching your progress through every stage of the program."

For some reason, neither Steve nor James took much comfort from that.

"Unlike regular boot camp, whose goal is to break down your sense of individuality in order to rebuild you as a more compliant piece of a unified whole, our goal is to physically train and enhance your body, while still keeping intact your sense of individuality. Yes, you need to be able to acknowledge and carry out orders, but _**you **_are going to be the one out there with the bigger picture, and it is ultimately _**your **_decisions, made in your capacity as leader, that will determine the tide of battle," Erskine said, looking Steve and James directly in their eyes. "In short, boys, we don't want soldiers, we want _**heroes**_. The simple fact is that we are not winning this war, at least in Europe. The Nazis have repelled every attempt we've make at even establishing a _**beachhead **_on their shores. Our nation's resources are not unlimited, and if we're going to beat them, we're going to need a miracle."

Dr. Erskine leaned back in his chair, his wild hair doing little to hide the serious expression on his face, "And that's what we do here at Project Rebirth...we make miracles."

"So you're hoping to make _**us **_into miracles," said Steve, quietly.

"That's right, son," Erskine nodded, finally rising from behind his desk. "Now follow me to the housing module. You're going to need all the rest you can get. You have a big day tomorrow."

Steve and James lay awake in their beds several hours later, unable to sleep, staring at the ceiling. Both were struggling with fear and anxiety, wondering if their lives were ever going to be the same again, fighting the urge to dismiss that day as a bad dream, or a horrible mistake. So many thoughts were racing through their minds that it was nearly impossible for them to concentrate on the task at hand...that of falling asleep. Despite the relatively comfortable room they had been assigned to share, and the faint glow from underneath the doorway slightly illuminating the otherwise dark room, the two found slumber impossible.

"Steve?" said James, breaking the silence.

"Yeah, James?"

"What have we gotten ourselves into?"

"...I don't know. Certainly not what I _**meant **_to get us into."

"They're gonna do experiments on us."

"Uh-huh."

James paused, "Are we gonna die?"

"I don't think so."

"Steve, I gotta say...I'm scared."

Steve turned over to look at his friend, "I am too, James."

"Why are we doing this?"

Steve's expression didn't change in the least, "_**I'm **_doing this because all my life I've wanted to do something great, to rise above the streets, to make something of myself. I'm doing this because I'd do anything for the chance to serve my country in its darkest hour, and if this is the only way I can do it, then I'll take it."

"Steve, that's so corny," James said, allowing himself a small grin to match Steve's. "...Why am _**I **_doing this?"

Steve's smile widened, "_**You're **_doing this because you don't want to get upstaged by a 24 year old bookworm scabber who practically lives in the local library."

James laughed as he lay back down on his bed, "Oh yeah. Thanks for putting things in perspective."

"Any time," Steve answered, as the two of them finally were able to close their eyes and drift off to sleep.

Steve awoke in the morning to the sound of someone knocking at his door. At first, he didn't recognize his surroundings, wondering where the heck he was and how he'd gotten there. Then he recalled the events of the previous day, and the insane turn his life had taken. As he got up to answer the door, he noticed that James wasn't in his bed, and asked himself where his friend could have gone.

Opening the door, Steve came face to face with a soldier, who gave him a quick salute, "Dr. Erskine wants you at the training module in two hours, fully dressed and ready to work," he said. "Breakfast is being served in the galley. Here's a map of the base, don't be late."

The soldier briskly handed Steve his map, and then rapidly walked away, leaving Steve to puzzle over the thing. Honestly he could barely make heads or tails of it, and having just woken up, wondering where James was and what kind of work they'd be doing, he wasn't in the mood to deal with it.

However, Steve went back into his room and dressed for the day, stepping back outside to see if he could find the galley with the dubious aid of his map. Walking down the hallway and turning a corner, he found what he assumed to be another elevator. He reluctantly walked towards it, not being overly fond of the thing, but following his map nevertheless.

"Hey, Steve!" said James, cheerily, as the elevator doors chimed open.

"What the-what the heck are you doing in there?" Steve asked, completely taken aback.

James was sitting on the elevator floor, legs crossed Indian style, with a soda in one hand and popcorn in the other, with an inappropriately wide smile on his face and his disheveled hair not helping the effect, "Steve, you gotta try this thing with me, it's awesome!"

"What is going on?" Steve asked, barely able to form the words in his early morning surprise.

"Oh this?" asked James, looking around the elevator as if he hadn't noticed it. "I woke up about an hour ago so I could ride the elevator again!"

"Why? These things make me sick."

"But they're so cool! Look, I even snagged this from the galley," said James, clearly far too enthused, holding up the popcorn for Steve. "Want some?"

"No thanks," said Steve softly groaning as he walked into the elevator with his friend.

As the doors pinged shut and his friend launched into the story of his morning elevator escapades, Steve rolled his eyes, praying to whoever was listening for his day not to get any worse than it already had.


	4. Chapter 4

The Age of Marvels: Chapter Four

Captain America

and the

Invaders

Part Four

_** During the darkest days of World War II, America stood united against the threat of the Nazi Germany war machine. Our Greatest Generation sacrificed everything in order to stem the forces of oppression from overrunning our very planet, led under the fearless banner of the greatest warrior of our time, Captain America. Inspired by his courageous example, and with the aid of his misfit band of Invaders, Captain America led the forces of freedom to victory, changing his world forever.**_

__October 2000

New Jersey

The home of Mr. Barnes

Colonel Fury whistled, "How times have changed."

"You said it," Mr. Barnes agreed, taking a sip of his tea. "I realize that Project Rebirth sounds archaic compared to today's standards, but back then it was a _**big **_adjustment. Steve and I felt like we were on a whole different planet."

"So that's where you guys went to boot camp?"

"Well, it can only be described as boot camp in the loosest sense," Mr. Barnes answered. "There were only about a dozen of us altogether, and we were each individually instructed by professional personal trainers. Boot camp involves an intense psychological attack designed to weed out the washouts before they have a chance to reach the military proper, Rebirth worked _**with **_us in an encouraging manner every step of the way. It was actually kind of fun."

The Colonel stared down at his cup of tea with a sour look on his face, prompting Mr. Barnes to laugh again.

"Yeah, I got that reaction from a lot of soldiers," he said, still chuckling to himself. "But you have to understand that Rebirth wasn't interested in training run of the mill soldiers, they needed leaders, commanders...heroes. And heroes don't _**need **_to be bred to follow and take orders as much, they need the training without the added conditioning."

"Yeah, but boot camp is intense for a _**reason**_," interjected Colonel Fury, skeptically. "The battlefield is a harsh environment, and it helps to prepare you for that."

"Oh, we were prepared, alright," replied Mr. Barnes. "We may have been encouraged instead of shouted at constantly, but we were also put through the kind of physical training that boot camp never even touches."

Early 1944

Project Rebirth Complex

The next several months saw Steve and James waking up obscenely early in the morning and going to bed agonizingly late every night. Food and bathroom breaks were drastically shortened as well, all in an effort to cram in as much training as possible in the shortest amount of time. Though Steve and James took it all in stride, some of the other recruits would sometimes ask why they were training so hard. Their instructor would answer that it should come as no surprise. The war was not going well, and their newest weapons (the recruits) needed to be ready as quickly as possible to help change that.

The instructor for the dozen or so recruits was an older, thin man with graying hair who enjoyed flicking things at the boys from time to time. He was most often gruff, but could be quick to break out into a smile when the situation allowed. He was a ridiculously difficult taskmaster, but was generally well liked by his pupils as they understood that his strict demeanor was not his choice, but had been forced upon him by the necessities of the war.

Everywhere he went he brought along his walking cane, which was a modest wooden one that half the time he didn't even need, and when he wasn't flicking things at the recruits, he was whacking them with the stick for slacking. For that, he earned himself the nickname Stick from the boys while his back was turned.

Along with the enigmatically likeable Stick, Dr. Erskine himself took a personal interest in the progress of his trainees. Often times he was right there on the floor of the training module with them, always with his trusty clipboard, shouting encouragement, giving advice, and always _**always **_scribbling away at his notes, his wild, unmanageable hair sticking up at any and all odd angles it could find.

Thanks to the tireless efforts of their two unorthodox coaches, the general atmosphere for the small group of recruits was an amiable one. Despite the fact that they were constantly fighting off exhaustion in one form or another, and unceasingly being trained from dawn until dusk, and effectively imprisoned in the off-white confines of Project Rebirth, they realized that they were taking part in something big, and they all believed in what they were doing.

After the initial month of regular boot camp, which mostly dealt with basic exercises, commands, and the like, the next two months were spent in more advanced training, which most soldiers never had to experience. During the course of said training, the recruits became experts with every weapon, vehicle, and piece of equipment that could possibly be found on the field of battle. This included American, British, French, German, Italian, Russian, Japanese, and many, many more models, some of them dating all the way back to Civil War era equipment that barely worked. Sometimes the recruits felt like their brains could barely contain all the information that was being thrust at them without exploding.

Along with equipment training, the advanced boot camp program included expert hand to hand combat instructions gleaned from fighting styles from all across the globe. The recruits were forced to drill _**dozens **_of combat techniques for _**weeks**_. This was when Stick's physical prowess really came into play. He would spar with the recruits, who were given every advantage the facility had to offer, while Stick would only use his cane, and would then proceed to beat the snot out of the boys during every single match. Countless times the recruits would hobble away from their humiliating defeats until they _**finally **_mastered the technique, all the while with Dr. Erskine watching in bemusement, often while snacking leisurely and grinning, until they were forced to move onto the _**next **_combat style. Of course, every day there was the mandatory, two hour, grueling, basic physical training regimen immediately after waking up. Altogether this strict schedule meant that there was plenty to keep the recruits busy every day.

James, who was already in pretty good shape when he arrived, found himself for the first time in his life pushed to his limits on a daily, sometimes hourly, basis. He couldn't remember _**ever **_being that utterly exhausted for such a prolonged amount of time. He often didn't think that he could continue on with the grueling training for one more minute, but somehow the tireless efforts of the other trainees and the somewhat obnoxious prodding of the instructors helped him keep going.

As ridiculously difficult as James found the training, Steve found it downright impossible. He was by far the scrawniest, most unfit recruit in the program. While most of the others took to the training objectives quickly, some proving themselves to be naturals at the style of combat they were undertaking or the operation of a new weapon, Steve was constantly bringing up the rear at the bottom of the class. He often struggled inwardly with the reason he had been invited. After all, Dr. Erskine had singled _**him **_out at the recruitment office, not James.

However, while Steve constantly struggled behind the rest of his compatriots, he never once complained or regretted it. He tried to take pride in his achievements, however insignificant they appeared in the face of the other's accomplishments. It might have taken him an extra ten minutes to run three miles, or he may only lift a third of the weights that the other boys boasted, but at the same time, he was constantly _**twice **_as tired and exhausted as his friends, and yet he was the one who inspired them to succeed. When the rest of them were ready to throw in the towel and give up, or wanted to stay in bed an extra hour, or were exhausted to the state of nausea, Steve was always the one willing to go the extra mile and lend a helping hand.

Additionally, Steve could always be found in the training module drilling his techniques hours before any of the others were even awake, as well as hours after they'd all gone to bed. He did this day after day and night after night, even though it honestly didn't appear to increase his performance significantly as compared to the others.

While James may have been the only one of the recruits to notice Steve's early morning and late night excursions (and with growing concern, too) Steve's actions quickly caught the eyes of Stick and Dr. Erskine. In fact, the unparalleled devotion Steve showed to his training prompted Stick to give him extra attention during drills, resulting in Steve's rapid growth. By the end of the three month training period, he was _**nearly **_a match for _**some **_of the other recruits, which was a vast improvement compared to his earlier prowess.

During their training, Dr. Erskine seemed to grow quite fond of the recruits, making a habit of taking breaks with them and even accompanying them to their rushed meals. Despite his decidedly odd behavior and demeanor, he became fast friends with them, as they all grew to respect each other. It didn't take long for them to learn all about one another, to the point that they eventually divulged their entire life stories. Dr. Erskine was even able to pull some strings so that the whole crew could go and eat dinner with him at his home every Friday night. (As long as his superiors didn't find out.)

Thanks in no small part to Steve's unflagging and encouraging efforts, he quickly won the respect and admiration of both the recruits and the instructors, which helped to push them to strive harder and harder to better themselves in the training module. This did not escape the notice of Dr. Erskine, who was of the opinion that this was the most hard working, talented group of recruits that Operation Rebirth had ever seen.

It came as no surprise that Erskine took special note of Steve from the beginning. Ever since the doctor had caught sight of Steve's file from the recruitment office, he'd felt that the boy was something special. He would often join Steve late at night while he was training alone, and the two of them would talk about this and that.

Despite the great differences between the two, they were both working toward a common goal, and that was all they needed to become cohorts. Steve had never had a friend like Dr. Erskine, and the latter's great experience and unorthodox wisdom meant that he soon became something of a father figure to the boy, something Steve had never experienced.

That is why Steve found himself, late one Thursday night, alone in the training module, warming down after undertaking a disappointingly slow five mile run. As he practically drug himself to the end of his warm-down lap and took a desperate swig from his canteen, he noticed Dr. Erskine absentmindedly approaching him while glancing at his clipboard. As he came closer, Steve shook his head, wondering if the doctor left his infamous clipboard alone even to take a shower.

"Doc, do you _**ever **_leave that clipboard behind?" he asked, trying to flash an only somewhat successful smile through is exhaustion.

"This thing?" asked Erskine, holding the clipboard up. "Heavens no, son! Why, practically everything I've ever thought is on here! It functions just like a brain to me, and that's an essential organ, you know."

Steve sat down on a nearby bench, wiping himself off with a towel, "Well, don't you ever record anything anywhere else?"

"Nope, don't need too. I've got it all right up here," Erskine answered, pointing at his head. "...Or here," he added, sheepishly holding his clipboard back up.

"Don't you think that's a little unprofessional?" Steve asked. "I mean, isn't it common practice to make copies of all your work?"

Erskine waved away Steve's comment, "Please son, what's the worst that could happen? It's just a little inconvenient, is all."

"Yeah, I'm sure that _**definitely **_won't come back to bite you," muttered Steve, rolling his eyes.

"What was that, son?"

"Oh, nothing."

Dr. Erskine grew thoughtful as he gazed down at his papers some more, "In all honesty, once the project is finished in a few more weeks, I absolutely intend on making more copies of my notes. It's just that I happen to work best this way. I know I employ...different methods, but let's face it, I'm a genius, and geniuses can operate any way they want."

Steve laughed along with the doctor, "Speaking of your genius, oh brilliant one, I actually have a question for you."

"Ask away, oh inquisitive pupil."

"If this serum you're going to administer to us is supposed to give us all enhanced abilities, why are we working so hard?" Steve asked. "I mean, any training we do now is only going to be trumped by the serum, right?"

"See, because I carry this stupid clipboard around with me everywhere, I have the answer for you right here," grinned Erskine. "But seriously son, the serum can only do so much."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that, theoretically, the serum is designed to enhance your muscle mass, endurance, agility, coordination, spatial awareness, intelligence, and basic combat aptitude, but it can't _**teach **_you how to fight, it can't instantly _**adapt **_your body and mind into that of an enhanced soldier. _**You **_have to posses the drive to do that yourself, and you can only achieve that state with good old fashioned hard work and training."

"Fantastic," Steve grumbled, sarcastically.

"Look at it this way," Erskine continued. "The abilities the serum grants you act as just another weapon in your arsenal, but if you aren't trained in the proper use of this weapon, it can never be applied to its full potential."

"So no matter which way you cut it, I still have to complete this pain-in-the-butt training?"

"That's right, son!" mocked Erskine, over-enthusiastically.

"Well, maybe if this whole project wasn't run by some crazy old coot, this would be a little easier," mumbled Steve, just loud enough for Erskine to hear.

The doctor laughed, "Well, to tell you the truth, this whole idea seems crazy to me too," he confessed. "Sometimes I'll just be sitting at my desk when the utter insanity of it all will hit me."

This made Steve perk up, "Yeah? I'm glad I'm not the only one, then. I couldn't think how an idea like this would even occur to me."

Dr. Erskine smiled at Steve, "Honestly son, I've been thinking on this concept for quite some time. I've been working on this serum for my entire life, and Project Rebirth is the culmination of all that work."

"Come again?"

Erskine began talking more animatedly, "I got the idea from old Greek mythology. My father used to tell me stories about the Greek gods, and how they would occasionally interfere in the struggles of man. Sometimes man would even have the audacity to fight against, or with the blessings of, the gods, and those battles were supposed to be terrible indeed."

Erskine's eyes glazed over as he remembered his childhood, "I used to imagine how those wars would look. Thousands of men, blinded by bloodlust, locked in battle against each other, and then, in the midst of all that senseless fighting, a great god, like a _**titan**_, would emerge, and he would single-handedly crush all who opposed him in the middle of all that carnage. Those mythical gods were capable of turning the tide of any battle, dominating the forces opposing them effortlessly."

Erskine turned to Steve, more excited than the boy had ever seen him, "Now, do you recall about ten years ago, the great battle between the Sub-Mariner and the Human Torch?"

Steve's eyes widened in realization, "Oh yeah, I remember that! It was all over the papers! They called it the headline of the century."

"Yes, that's the one," Erskine nodded, continuing his story. "I don't know what the _**papers **_wrote about it, but at the time I was working for the government on another military contract, and the official government report apparently had a whole different perspective."

"In 1933 I was involved in a secret government project overseeing underwater exploration, in an effort to discover deep sea resources to help our country out of the Depression. However, at some point during the expedition all of our experimental submarines mysteriously vanished from our detection devices. We immediately received communications informing us that we had been found guilty of trespassing on hostile sovereign territory and that any further encroachment would be considered an act of war."

"This warning was personally delivered by an individual who identified himself as King Namor, who claimed to hail from the lost city of Atlantis," the doctor said, grinning at Steve's amazed reaction. "Apparently we had stumbled upon his civilization completely by accident, and the Atlanteans (who by the way already harbored a _**strong **_dislike for outsiders) had taken offense to that as they assumed the expedition was made up of scouts for an upcoming invasion."

"Well, what did you do?" Steve asked, enthralled with the tale.

Erskine shrugged, "Well, King Namor left immediately afterwards, and with no other means of communicating with him, we decided to send another submarine down there, painted it internationally neutral colors, and loaded it with diplomats to explain that we had meant no harm."

"What happened?"

The doctor suddenly became very interested in the bench on which he was sitting, trying to distance himself from the situation, "He _**may **_have ripped it in half with his bare hands."

Steve was speechless.

"Yeah," Erskine continued, bashfully. "Next thing we knew, he had gathered a small army of Atlanteans and begun a full scale invasion of New York City. (This is the part you may remember.) He began with a tidal wave that washed over almost the entire island, and then marched his soldiers right into Times Square to begin his occupation. I don't know what we would have done without the Human Torch."

Steve looked at Dr. Erskine questioningly, "I heard about him. What's _**his **_story?"

Erskine sighed, "Oddly enough, the Human Torch was actually not human at all. He was _**created **_by a colleague of mine from college, Dr. Phineas Horton. Horton was a genius unlike any I have ever seen. He was one of a kind," said Erskine, sighing.

"Well, what happened to him?" Steve asked, concerned.

The doctor continued, somewhat quietly, "Dr. Horton was easily the most brilliant man of our generation, maybe _**any **_generation, but after years of unparalleled scientific breakthroughs he went into seclusion, cutting himself off from the scientific community and the world. When he finally emerged years later, he claimed to have discovered the secret of life, having created, purely by scientific means, a synthetic human specimen."

"Uh...what?" Steve asked, stuttering. "Is that even possible?"

"Apparently it was for Horton," answered Erskine, shrugging. "He organized a press conference wherein he planned to give his subject life in front of the entire world's media. I was there, I saw the whole thing."

After a short pause to collect his thoughts Erskine begrudgingly continued, "Horton was up on the stage chatting up the press, obviously enormously pleased with himself. When he was ready, he lifted up the curtain behind him, where everybody saw a normal naked man standing inside a large glass case. Horton said that the case was completely airtight, but that as soon as he let oxygen inside, the man would awaken for the first time."

"Couldn't he just have taken any guy off the street and put him in the case?" asked Steve, curiously.

"That's what we all thought!" exclaimed Erskine. "I mean, making your own synthetic person? That's outrageous! A lot of the press in there didn't even know what 'synthetic' meant!"

"Unfortunately for Dr. Horton, that's when everything went wrong. As soon as he let air into the tank, his experiment caught on fire. It was the most bizarre thing. Yes, the subject did seem to wake up when air entered the chamber, but as soon as it came into contact with his skin, it began to blaze uncontrollably!"

"The strangest part was that the subject didn't seem to feel any pain, or even initially realize that he was aflame. It only seemed to panic when the audience freaked out. Horton was horrified, the media started rioting in fear, and security didn't know _**what **_the heck to do. What wound up happening was that the experiment broke out of the glass case, ran out of the building, and then freaking _**flew away**_!"

"What do you mean he flew away?"

"I mean he jumped into the air and flew the heck away!" exclaimed Erskine wildly. "It was astonishing, son. I'd never seen anything like it."

"Anyway, the police lost the synthetic man's trail pretty quickly, and nobody had any clue where it could possibly be. To prevent panic, the government hushed it up as best they could, and they even put Dr. Horton in prison for a time. Sadly, despite the fact that his experiment had technically been a success, Horton committed suicide while he was still in prison."

"That's awful," said Steve.

"Yeah, it stunk," Erskine agreed. "But what are you gonna do?"

"I still don't understand what this had to do with Namor invading," Steve commented, trying to lighten the mood.

"Well, when the Atlanteans attacked, we were caught completely off guard," Erskine said, coming back to life. "I mean, we were totally unprepared for that! The casualty reports alone would have been astronomical if it hadn't been for the synthetic man's timely reappearance."

"What? He came back?"

"Nobody really knows what happened," admitted the doctor. "We all figured that he must have been hiding somewhere in the city during the flood, and for some reason decided to take things into his own hands. It was a good thing he did too, because there certainly wasn't anything anyone else could have done about it."

"I don't know what Horton did to that thing, but it possessed strength the likes of which _**I'd **_never seen before," added Erskine. "He flew out of wherever he'd been hiding, literally saved _**thousands **_of people, and then defeated the Atlantean taskforce all alone. He even fought King Namor himself to a standstill above the skies of New York."

"I remember that now!" exclaimed Steve, excitedly. "I saw it from the roof of the building I was on!"

Erskine nodded, "The papers had a field day with it. They're the ones who dubbed the experiment 'the Human Torch', and nicknamed Namor 'the Sub-Mariner'. They claimed that the Torch soundly defeated Namor, who then retreated back to Atlantis with his tail between his legs, but the few military personnel who were there had a different story. They said that only after hours of fighting, the Torch finally lost his life shielding a group of civilians from a collapsing building. So even though he had won the battle, Namor decided to take what was left of his forces and retreat back to Atlantis. We're still not sure why, but something the Torch did must have gotten through to Namor before he died."

"Wow...I never knew," said Steve, solemnly.

"Nobody did," said Erskine. "Again, the government covered up as much of it as they could. Human strength on that scale was completely unprecedented, the only such display in recorded history! They categorized Namor and the Torch as 'meta-humans' and confiscated the Torch's body for study. The whole debacle is now referred too as 'the Atlantean Incident', and even though they've been studying Dr. Horton's experiment for more than ten years, they're still no closer to unraveling its secrets."

"But what _**was **_the Human Torch?" asked Steve, in awe. "And what happened to King Namor?"

Erskine just shrugged again, "The Human Torch was some kind of android, which means it definitely wasn't human, but it wasn't exactly a robot either. We don't really know what it was. And as far as we know, Namor is still ruling Atlantis, having either decided that we weren't as bad as he had at first thought, or that we aren't worth the trouble of invading again."

"And we have the Torch to thank for that?"

"We think so, yeah."

There was a short pause before Dr. Erskine went on, "Anyway, after the Atlantean Incident, my serum proposal was met with much more enthusiasm. The government decided that if these meta-humans were indeed more than just a myth, and if they were capable of that much wide-scale destruction, that they had better have some fighting for their side, and that's where Project Rebirth got its start."

"So...in a way...it's because of the Human Torch that I'm here right now," said Steve, thoughtfully.

"I guess you could say that," Erskine agreed. "The Torch, and my unbridled, unparalleled genius.

"Yeah, I'll be sure to thank your genius just as soon as I can," grunted Steve sarcastically, as he got up from the bench and began stretching.

"I just have one more question, Dr. Erskine," he said, trying to pass his query off as an afterthought. "Why did you pick _**me**_ for this program?"

Erskine looked Steve dead in his eyes, completely seriously, before replying, "Son, when we first began experimentation, we lost a lot of good subjects to the serum prototypes...and that wasn't a burden I was prepared to bear. When I finally saw your file come in from the recruiter's office, I thought that _**here **_was a person who would do _**anything **_for his country. This guy would fight any battle, make any sacrifice, do whatever it took, to save his nation, and that's what this serum, project, and _**world **_needs...and it's what I need."

Dr. Erskine and Steve Rogers locked eyes from across the bench, the silence being broken only by the doctor's final statement, "If this serum is going to work, Steve, it's gong to work on someone just like you."

"I'm not so sure, Doctor."

Erskine gave him another smile as he also rose up from the bench, "You're just going to have to trust me on that, son."

Steve finally plodded into his room in the living module with only a few hours left until he would be forced to wake to start training again for the next day. With barely enough strength left for the task, he began climbing into his bed, relishing the feel of the pillow beneath his head, trying desperately to ignore the fact that he would only be asleep for the next few hours.

"Finally finished working?" asked a voice from the other side of the room.

"James?" Steve asked, startled. "Have you been awake this whole time?"

James rolled over in his bed so he could see his friend, "I couldn't sleep."

"Well give it your best shot. We don't have long until breakfast."

"I'm worried about you, man," James confessed in the darkness. "You stay up _**way **_too late, and you don't get nearly enough sleep. You're not gonna last if you keep this up."

Steve rolled over, away from his friend, facing the wall, "I'm sorry James, but I'm the worst recruit in the program. The reason I came here is to try to make a difference, and right now this is the only thing I can do."

Steve's reply was met with silence from James' bed.

"I have to do my best," said Steve, quietly. "It's all I know."

"The longer we're here, the farther away I feel from home," said James, changing the subject after a long break. "I feel like even after we're done here, we'll never be able to go back."

Steve smiled in his drowsy state, "I know. That's why I'm staying."

"Are you scared?"

"...No. Are you?"

"...Not with you around."

"...Good night, James."

"Night, Steve."


	5. Chapter 5

The Age of Marvels: Chapter Five

Captain America

and the

Invaders

Part Five

_** During the darkest days of World War II, America stood united against the threat of the Nazi Germany war machine. Our Greatest Generation sacrificed everything in order to stem the forces of oppression from overrunning our very planet, led under the fearless banner of the greatest warrior of our time, Captain America. Inspired by his courageous example, and with the aid of his misfit band of Invaders, Captain America led the forces of freedom to victory, changing his world forever.**_

__October 2000

New Jersey

The home of Mr. Barnes

"And here I thought you guys would just speed through boot camp without any problems," said Colonel Fury, leaning back in his seat, relaxing.

Mr. Barnes chuckled, "You forget that was when Steve didn't have any powers. At that point he was just a scrawny kid from Brooklyn."

"That must have been some time you two had," Fury replied, absentmindedly. "I'd give just about anything to go back and see it for myself."

"The time we spent training down at Project Rebirth was unforgettable," agreed Mr. Barnes. "It changed our lives. But what _**really **_shook things up was what happened _**after **_we graduated boot camp."

"What do you mean?"

"Well think about it son," Mr. Barnes exclaimed, putting his tea down. "Things didn't exactly go smoothly from then on, did they?"

The Colonel let his gaze drop, "No, I guess they didn't."

Mr. Barnes seemed lost in his thoughts, "You'd think the day Captain America was born would've been a day of celebration, or some kind of national holiday...but it wasn't. The day that Steve Rogers took on that mantle was one of the most tragic days of his life, one that would define the rest of the war for _**both **_of us."

April, 1944

Project Rebirth Complex

Steve said that he wasn't scared, and the funny thing was that James actually believed him. The accelerated training program was finished, and all the recruits had graduated with flying colors...even Steve. So impressed was both Stick and Dr. Erskine with his performance that he was offered the opportunity to be the first test subject for the serum. Erskine didn't even have to offer his habitual assurance that "I'm absolutely _**positive **_that it'll work this time" before Steve said he'd do it.

Last night James had found the atmosphere in the living module to be oddly jubilant. The other recruits were having the time of their lives, happy at the very least that the strenuous training was finally over. Steve had apparently felt no qualms about joining in, laughing his head off during their last night on the town before the much anticipated trip to the laboratory module.

But while everybody else was partying free in the streets of New York for the first time in months, James couldn't help but find himself succumbing to overwhelming feelings of dread and doubt. Were they really doing the right thing? Because once Steve walked into that lab the next day, for better or worse, things would never be the same.

Of course, James hadn't seen his friend this happy in a long time, and didn't want to rain on his parade during his all-too-brief celebration. Despite James' misgivings, this is what Steve wanted, and he'd earned his time in the spotlight. However, try as he might, James couldn't dispel his uneasiness, and they continued to haunt him as he lay in bed, trying desperately to fall asleep, as the dim sounds of the other's merriment continued to disturb him from down the hall well into the late hours of the night.

The next morning, Steve was prepared and ready to go before James had even woken up. While James had never seen his friend so excited, there was also a pervading sense of peace that Steve seemed to exude. Amidst all the hustle and bustle of the complex that morning Steve stood resolute in his confidence, ready to meet everyone who crossed his path with a smile and a wave.

Finally, minutes before they were to be escorted into the laboratory module, James couldn't take it anymore, "Steve, what the heck is _**wrong **_with you?"

"Come again?" asked Steve, taken aback by his friend's sudden outburst.

James was so distraught that he could barely speak, "You're about to be taken into a laboratory, be experimented on, have God knows _**what **_pumped into you, all by scientists who want to turn you into the perfect soldier for the _**military**_? What part of this sounds like a good idea?"

Calmly and deliberately, Steve placed his hands on James' shoulders, "James, we've known this was coming for months. We've prepared for this, we've struggled for this. This, here today, was the goal. Now that we're here, lets not lose our nerve."

James looked at his friend imploringly, "This is _**stupid**_, Steve."

Steve looked right into his friend's eyes, "No, this is the right thing to do. This is what I've waited my entire life for. This is how we make a difference, James. You know we have to do this."

James turned away to stare at the floor, "It's just...once we walk in there, everything changes...and there'll be no going back. I'm scared."

Steve's eyes, having lost none of their focus, seemed to stare off into the distance. He had a habit of doing that from time to time. He had an intense gaze, an intense _**focus**_, even when he wasn't looking at anything at all, even behind his thick glasses, that was almost like he could see something nobody else could. James had always wondered what it was he could see, what it was that seemed to give him such utter confidence.

But for once, it seemed, Steve was not as confident as he looked, "I'm scared too, James," he finally said, turning back to his friend.

"You are?"

"Heck yes!" Steve exclaimed. "You'd have to be crazy not to be!"

Then he turned serious, "That's why I'm gonna need you to be strong for me, okay?" asked Steve, looking his friend straight in his eyes. "I can't do this without you, James. I need you here, alright?"

James worked up a smile despite himself, "Yeah, okay Steve. I can do that."

Steve turned to face the door one more time, "This is something I have to do. My whole life has led up to this, and I need my best friend in there to help me see it through."

Suddenly turning silly, Steve reached over to give James a hug, "Yeah yeah, okay, I didn't ask for all this touchy-feely nonsense. I just wanted to make sure you weren't gonna wuss out, is all," James protested loudly, pushing his friend away while they laughed.

"Well I'm glad you feel that way," said Dr. Erskine, as he and Stick walked through the door. "Because it's time to go."

"Come on, kid," Stick added with a reassuring wink. "Get the lead out."

Dr. Erskine, Stick, Steve, and James (who was the only other non-essential person Steve could finnagle into the lab) left their room and began walking down the hallway towards the laboratory module. As they turned the corner and made their way towards one of the main halls that connected all four modules, Steve's face broke into a wide smile.

Lining the hallway were all the other recruits, along with most of the Project Rebirth personnel. Each and every one of them came to attention as Steve approached, sounding off with a smart salute. As they passed, many of them broke rank, softly congratulating him or wishing him luck. While this caught Steve slightly off guard, never before had he felt so right about a decision in his entire life.

"Everyone who works in this facility strongly believes in the mission of Project Rebirth," explained Dr. Erskine as they finally drew near to the laboratory module. "They're all volunteers, all experts in their respective fields, and all heavily invested in your future, son."

"How so?" Steve asked, quietly.

Erskine stopped in front of the door to the lab, "Well, we've never felt so assured that we've finally perfected our technique to create the ultimate soldier, and we've never had such a successful group of recruits graduate through our training program. We're all, _**everyone**_, very excited about today."

"No pressure, man," James muttered to Steve, who threw his friend a nervous glance in response.

"Don't worry, you'll be fine. We'll take care of everything," said Dr. Erskine, throwing open the doors. "Mr. Rogers, welcome to what is possibly the most advanced scientific laboratory on planet Earth, the heart and soul of Project Rebirth!"

Whatever Steve and James had expected, it wasn't this. The entire lab was almost stunningly bright, as every surface and tool had been constructed with a hard, off-white substance that Steve could not identify. This was complemented, however, by the soft, clear lighting from the ceiling and the walls, which made the entire room, large and alien as it was, slightly more comforting. The wall surfaces were almost entirely covered with futuristic computer and television monitors, with dozens of scientists busy manipulating their almost holographic, touch-screen controls; while the floor of the room was littered with gleaming scientific/medical equipment sitting upon portable trays and tables, each being checked and re-checked by more scientists, all of whom were wearing large white protective HAZMAT suits, something that did not offer Steve any comfort. Above them, they noticed several tinted windows, presumably for guests and personnel to view the proceedings from a safe distance. Of course, what dominated the room was the large platform arrayed in the middle of it. Raised from the floor by several feet, the platform sported a large table, complete with arm and leg restraints, presumably for Steve to lay on, along with several large...arrays, constructed around the table, probably used for things that Steve didn't like to think about.

Naturally, Steve and James didn't know what touch-screen computers, televisions, observation booths, florescent lighting, HAZMAT suits, or anything else in the room was called. For all they knew, none of those things had even been _**invented**_ yet, (or at least not been made available to the public). But Dr. Erskine and his team knew what they were, and how to operate it all, and that's what mattered.

Steve and James' attention was caught by one of the men walking up to them, "Hi, my name is Dr. John Smith," he said, taking his protective hood off so they could see his face. "I'm Dr. Erskine's assistant."

Shaking hands with the boys, Dr. Smith turned to James, "I'm gonna have to ask you to put one of these on, Mr. Barnes," he said, handing a suit to the recruit.

Everyone in the laboratory was clearly in something of a rush, and while Dr. Erskine escorted Steve to the table, Dr. Smith shooed James over into one of the farthest corners, "Yeah, just stand out of the way over here, if you would."

James almost tripped over himself as he rushed to keep up with the doctor, one leg inside the suit while his other flapped about outside it, "What the...jeez! Okay doc, I'm here. Settle down a second!"

"It's okay kid," said Stick, who was already inside his suit and standing in the corner beside James. "I call this the Clueless Corner, and the nerds here always get a little jumpy before the procedure."

"Who's this Dr. Smith guy?" asked James, finally wiggling into the suit.

"Oh, he's Dr. Erskine's right hand man," Stick explained, leaning back casually against the wall and crossing his arms. "He's been here almost as long as I have. Great guy."

Meanwhile, Dr. Erskine had led Steve over to the central platform, "Okay, I know this _**looks **_dangerous, but I want you to change into this hospital gown and lay back on this table, alright?"

Steve hadn't quite finished eyeing the table warily, "You mean you want me to change in front of all these people here?"

Erskine paid little attention to Steve's comment, "Come on, it's not like they haven't seen anything like that before. Besides, I know you can't tell with them in those big HASMAT suits, but _**most **_of them are _**guys**_."

"_**Most **_of them?" asked Steve, looking around to make sure no one was paying any attention to him while he changed. "Ooh, it's chilly in here."

"Yeah, but I'm not allowed to change the thermostat," Erskine explained while he lay Steve down and began attaching the restraints to his limbs. "Something about destabilizing the fabric of the universe."

Steve lifted his head up off the table in surprise, "Really?"

"What do you think?" asked Erskine, winking at him mischievously. "Okay team, gather round, we're about to start!"

"Don't worry son, you're going to be fine. You won't feel a thing," Dr. Erskine said, leaning down to Steve's level to quietly reassure him.

In the last few moments before they began the procedure, trying his best to fight back his rising feelings of panic, Steve looked to James. It was only when his friend flashed him a confident thumbs up (despite his own doubts) that Steve was able to lay back, take a deep breath, and make the conscious decision to stifle, once and for all, his feelings of anxiety. Whatever happened next, whether good or bad, he would approach it and deal with it just like he had everything else his life. He'd be fine.

With James and Stick watching with a mix of nervous anticipation, Steve turned his head so he was gazing straight up into the soft white light above him, which was quickly obstructed as several scientists, intimidatingly dressed in HASMAT suits, who leaned over him to begin the procedure.

"Okay, first thing's first," instructed Dr. Erskine. "Administer the anesthetic."

One of the assistants, who Steve thought to be Dr. Smith, leaned over and gently placed an IV in Steve's right arm, unfortunately, this did little to further relax the patient. At the same time, Dr. Erskine and the rest of the team began prepping the arrays around the table for the operation. Despite his unceasing attempts to remain calm, Steve could feel his heart begin beating faster and faster as he noticed that this involved placing half a dozen needles in the robotic fixtures around him.

It was difficult not to notice Steve's tension, "It's okay son," said Dr. Erskine, putting a gloved hand on Steve's shoulder. "The serum has to be delivered in small doses through multiple junctures simultaneously. It's the only way to avoid a harmful reaction."

"Oh good. I feel _**fine **_now," remarked Steve sarcastically, noticing his speech becoming slightly slurred with the anesthetic.

"_**That's **_the spirit, kid," said Dr. Smith, laughing along with the other doctors at Steve's attempt at humor. "We got a live one today guys."

"Alright, now attach the diodes..._**carefully**_," Dr. Erskine said, flipping a switch next to him.

Steve flinched involuntarily as a quiet hum filled the room and six red laser lights began beaming from the robotics surrounding him to several points on his body. The lights didn't hurt, but they made him uneasy. The doctors then swabbed off the area around each light, and attached small circular diodes to him. A diode was placed on each of his hips and shoulders, with the last two placed on the crown of his head.

"Just breathe son," Dr. Erskine said, reassuringly. "This'll just last a second. It'll be over before you know it."

"You might wanna try closing your eyes too," Dr. Smith suggested, making the final adjustments to the equipment.

"It's okay, I'm not worried," Steve said, confidently. "I've been waiting forever for this."

"Okay, patient says he's ready, he's ready," Dr. Erskine announced, enthusiastically. "Gentlemen, let's make history!"

Over in the clueless corner, James leaned closer to Stick, "Are we sure Erskine knows what he's doing?" he whispered.

"He almost always does," Stick muttered back.

"_**Almost**_?" James hissed back.

But it was too late. Dr. Erskine had already pressed the last button on the control panel situated near the table. The whir of machinery grew slightly louder as the needles which had been clamped to the robots grew closer and closer to the patient's skin. In the last few seconds before the injection, Steve said a silent prayer to God, who had always watched over him so far, closed his eyes, and emptied his mind, thinking only of breathing in and out, in and out, slowly, calmly, completely. His life was now in the hands of Dr. Erskine, and fate, both of which Steve trusted implicitly.

The seconds ticked slowly by as the only sounds which came from the stress-filled room was Steve's steady breathing and the machine's soft humming, which only seemed to grow in intensity moment by moment. So charged with tension was the silence in the room that even the beads of sweat beginning to form on the doctor's brows seemed to make a noise. Ironically enough, to everyone present, _**Steve **_appeared to be the most at ease out of everyone.

"And we have contact...now!" exclaimed Dr. Erskine, noting the time on his computer console as the needles punctured Steve's skin.

The whole world appeared to hold its breath. Steve noticed nothing at first, not allowing himself to flinch for even an instant. He barely even felt the needles at all...even though he realized that he should. The ones on his hips and arms caused no discomfort at all, but the two needles in his head were a different story. Due to the anesthetic he felt no pain, but the sensation of the twin steel-tipped needles slowly burrowing through his skull was extremely discomforting. However, Steve refused to flinch or show any sign of pain. When all was said and done it was his indomitable will that had seen him through any challenges in his life, and it would see him through this too.

All other eyes in the room turned towards Steve's heart, breath, and brain monitors, which had been beeping in a normal rhythm ever since the initial injection. There was a collective sigh of relief from the doctors, but it wasn't over yet.

"Sir, the patient appears to be responding positively so far to the injection," announced one of the assistants.

"That's great news, doctor," Erskine replied, cautiously. "But the serum has yet to take effect. Hold off on the celebration until those needles are extracted."

"Dr. Erskine...it's working..." Dr. Smith said, in a hushed voice.

Steve only really began to notice that something was happening when an awed silence began to envelope the room. Thanks again to the anesthetic, he knew he wasn't feeling things the way he was supposed to be. As long as he kept his mind clear and his eyes closed it was almost as if the whole thing was happening to someone else. That is...until a decidedly uncomfortable feeling began to spread over his body.

It was only until that discomfort began to turn into pain that Steve finally dared to open his eyes...and gasped in shock at what he saw. His gown had been situated to cover only his unmentionables, so that his legs and upper torso were completely exposed, thereby making it painfully obvious what was happening to him.

Steve's body was swelling up like a balloon! Muscles and tendons looked to be expanding at an alarming rate, growing before his very eyes! His body was literally, visibly growing upon itself, redefining his muscles and their place upon the rest of his structure. It was like watching a sped-up nature video documenting a plant growing from a seed until it blooms, all in the blink of an eye! Most alarming of all, Steve could see his veins straining against his skin, almost to the brink of rupturing and popping, trying as hard as they could to support the blood flow to the rapidly expanding areas of his changing body.

"It's okay it's okay," Dr. Erskine assured everyone. "It's under control. This is normal."

Unfortunately, Steve's heart rate and breathing were also steadily increasing. The human body simply didn't know how to deal with the accelerated growth that it was experiencing, and that was the problem that Dr. Erskine and his team had spent so many years trying to solve in Project Rebirth. Their challenge was to find a way for the body to accept the serum without suffering a potential fatal hemorrhage or inducing a state of shock. And while Steve had prepared himself mentally more than any of their other subjects, that still didn't mean that the procedure would go smoothly.

Steve had tried to keep himself under control, but the sight of his body possibly about to explode from the inside understandably unsettled him. On top of that, his heartbeat had increased to dangerous levels in an ability to cope with so many abrupt changes. The doctors around him began to scramble for emergency equipment as Steve felt himself quickly spiraling out of control. He could try whatever tricks he wanted to keep himself calm, but the harsh reality was that there were two needles injecting the serum directly into his brain, and his brain just couldn't cope with that. Cranial activity began skyrocketing as the serum affected all aspects of Steve's rational thoughts and personality, causing synapses to be rerouted, diffused, or even to outright explode. If something wasn't done immediately to save him, Steve would surely flatline.

"He's going into shock!"

"He's not responding."

"I need the emergency trach kit!"

"Someone change the diode input from 40 mc's to 60 mc's!"

"Increase the anesthesia drip."

"Who's manning the console?"

The last blurry sound that Steve heard before his eyes closed was James' voice in the background, "What's going on? Is he gonna be okay? _**Is he gonna be okay!**_"

It was a funny feeling, Steve thought amusingly, losing control of your own mind. Almost blissfully Steve imagined himself standing there happily waving his mind goodbye as it left him. If he could have focused enough to concentrate, Steve would have said that it felt like he was leaving on a long vacation, and a much deserved one at that. He felt sleepy, but quite happy, and he would have gladly lay down to take a long awaited nap in the cozy recesses of his own subconscious if it hadn't been for that nagging, annoying feeling that seemed to bubble up from out of nowhere.

Steve turned to address the nagging, prepared to give it a stern talking too, only to find that it wasn't annoying at all, but rather pretty. Floating in front of him, the only source of light amidst the misty darkness that had engulfed him, was a small, bright flame. Fascinated, Steve crept closer to the fire, noticing that while it did give off a little heat, that it did not burn him when he reached out to touch it. Gingerly, Steve cupped it in his hands and brought it up so he could take a closer look at it.

At first it appeared to be just an ordinary flame, as if from a small candle, but eventually Steve could make out a blurry image emanating from the heart of the fire. The more he stared at it, the more distinct the picture became, until he could clearly make out the form of a young man.

He was a happy man, full of compassion and ambition. He didn't have much, but he had much to give, and the confidence and joy that he felt began to spread over time from himself, into his neighborhood, across the entire world. Often the young man was accompanied by another. The other joined the first in all his endeavors, and the two were obviously very close, best friends even. Looking down at it all inside the flames, Steve couldn't help but think how nice it must be to have people in his life like that. And the more he looked down into that fire, watching the young man help his friends and neighbors, the more Steve wished that _**he **_could live that life. It sure would be nice to make a difference in other people's lives, to help them feel the way that _**he **_felt all the time.

Then he noted how familiar the man in the fire was, and that's when it hit him. He _**was **_the young man in the fire! He was Steve Rogers, and that was his life! He wanted it back! He wanted to live it, breathe it, do it! He was Steve Rogers and damn it, he wasn't done yet!

Suddenly Steve was engulfed in a suffocating feeling, as the black mist that surrounded him melted away into something that more resembled water. The delicate flame that he'd sheltered in his hands was forgotten as Steve struggled upward for air, upward to the surface, upward through the crushing pressure around him, always upward. As he fought and struggled for air, for being, Steve began to see a dim light up above him, flickering pathetically, tragically far from his reach. Rather than give up or give in, spurned on by the only thought blasting through his shattered mind, _**I'm not done yet**_, only convinced Steve to fight _**even harder**_! This was just another challenge the powers-that-be had thrown in his way, and he'd be _**damned **_he was going to give up now!

"Good God almighty!" exclaimed the doctors, jumping back in surprise as Steve's body leaped straight up on the table without warning.

So sudden and vicious was Steve's revival that he didn't even notice that his jerking, almost spasming motions had snapped the restraints holding him down right off the steel table, sending them flying across the laboratory. Appearing even more frightened than Steve himself, the doctors, along with James and Stick, took cover on the ground or crouched behind what little shelter they could find, leaving Steve dominating the room, still sitting straight up, breathing hard, sweating, and with a dazed, confused, but vaguely triumphant expression on his face.

Eventually, after a few minutes, Dr. Erskine (who was the closest one to the patient) stood up and cautiously approached him, "Steve, son, how do you feel?"

Steve slowly looked over to the doctor with a slight smile on his face, "I think I feel...okay. What...what happened?"

"Well, we almost lost you, son," explained Dr. Erskine, matching Steve's grin with his own. "You went into shock, and then cardiac arrest, but I can't _**tell **_you how glad I am to see you!"

With that, Dr. Erskine reached out and embraced Steve in a hug, causing everyone in the room to let out an enormous sigh of relief. For the first time in what seemed an eternity, the men and women in the laboratory module could breathe easy. They'd earned it.

"Heart rate and respiratory activity are within normal parameters," announced Dr. Smith. "Barely."

Dr. Erskine laughed and lightly clapped Steve on the back, "Well, you'll need to rest up and we'll have to run a few tests on you, Mr. Rogers, but I think you'll be happy to know that you are the first official successful product of Project Rebirth! Congratulations, Steve!"

"Thanks, Dr. Erskine," Steve replied, groggily shaking his friend's hand.

"Why don't you take a look at yourself?" Erskine invited his friend.

Almost timidly, Steve dared to look down at himself for the first time since the serum was administered, and he was _**shocked **_at the results. He wasn't sure what had happened to it, but somehow his almost unhealthily skinny, flabby, wiry frame had been replaced by a solid, built, toned, _**heavily **_muscled body. It looked like it had been cut straight from one of those fitness advertisements! He didn't know what to make of it. Now he had muscles _**on top of **_muscles that he hadn't even _**had **_before! Heck, he even felt taller now! What the crap?

"I...I don't even know what to say," Steve admitted, still groggy. "I don't even feel like _**me **_anymore."

"Oh, that's still you in there," Dr. Erskine chuckled. "It's just that you've now been reinforced with an extra hundred and twenty pounds of good ol' American _**muscle**_. How does it feel?"

"It feels..._**good**_," Steve said, his smile broadening. "I feel like a million bucks, doctor!" he said, trying to slide off the table but stumbling in the process.

"Take it easy there son. That serum did a number on your body," Dr. Erskine advised, steadying his friend and laying him back on the table. "Dr. Smith, can we please locate a stretcher for this brave soldier?"

"I'm afraid that will be quite impossible, doctor," Dr. Erskine heard Smith say from directly behind him. "Give me the serum now, or you'll find that yourself and Project Rebirth will come to a very abrupt and grisly end."

All eyes in the entire laboratory module were locked on Dr. Smith, who was standing behind Erskine with a loaded pistol pointed straight at the back of his superior's head. The tension was back, but this time Steve had the feeling that things wouldn't be ending as well for any of them. There was a traitor in Project Rebirth.


	6. Chapter 6

The Age of Marvels: Chapter Six

Captain America

and the

Invaders

Part Six

_** During the darkest days of World War II, America stood united against the threat of the Nazi Germany war machine. Our Greatest Generation sacrificed everything in order to stem the forces of oppression from overrunning our very planet, led under the fearless banner of the greatest warrior of our time, Captain America. Inspired by his courageous example, and with the aid of his misfit band of Invaders, Captain America led the forces of freedom to victory, changing his world forever.**_

__October 2000

New Jersey

The home of Mr. Barnes

"We had no idea what was going on," Mr. Barnes confessed, holding his head in his hands. "We were caught completely by surprise. Unprepared and shocked almost beyond the capability to respond at all, the best any of us could really do was pray for a miracle."

"But a miracle never came," replied Colonel Fury, sadly.

Mr. Barnes could only shake his head slowly, "No. It didn't."

Colonel Fury sat back up, thinking out loud more than anything else, "It's hard to believe that you guys really had no idea that there was a spy in Project Rebirth. I mean, it's common knowledge now. Every schoolkid knows how Captain America got his start."

"I know. It's a trip, isn't it?" asked Mr. Barnes, forcing himself to smile. "But despite what happened, it was the first instance of true tragedy for Steve and I. It taught us what it was to be a victim of the war, the hopelessness and helpless fury that went along with it. And that experience is what steeled us for what came next..."

April, 1944

Project Rebirth Complex

"Nobody move," Dr. Smith said calmly. "Or Dr. Erskine here becomes Project Rebirth's first employee casualty."

Every man and woman in the laboratory module was glued to the spot, unable to move even if they wanted too. The scene inside the lab was a unique and tense one. Dr. Smith, who had been Dr. Erskine's assistant for years, was holding his superior at gunpoint. Directly next to them, Steve Rogers, who had just become the first successful test subject for the super soldier serum, lay on his side on the operating table, exhausted due to the invasive and experimental procedure, incapable of doing anything to save his mentor. Off in the far corner, James and their drill instructor, nicknamed Stick, stood rigid with fear, too far away to interfere at all. And spread all across the enormous laboratory were about a dozen other scientists and doctors, all decked out in their radiation shielded HAZMAT suits.

Dr. Erskine, obviously tense but trying his best to remain calm, opened his mouth, "What do-"

"Hands in the air," interrupted Dr. Smith, lightly motioning with the gun for Erskine to follow his orders. "Don't move."

Dr. Erskine slowly lifted his hands as he was told before trying again, "What do you want?"

"I want the serum."

"I don't-"

"All of it," Dr. Smith finished, curtly.

"I don't think I can do that, doctor," Erskine replied, trying to blink the sweat out of his eyes while still trying to act brave. "Only authorized personnel have access to the serum."

"Have you forgotten, friend? I'm the personal assistant to the supervisor for the entire program...you," Smith said, a cruel smile crossing his lips. "That means I _**am **_authorized."

"I'm afraid the only place that _**traitors **_are authorized to be at is the business end of a firing squad," Erskine continued in a deceptively conversational tone.

Without warning Dr. Smith lashed out at his victim, savagely striking Erskine on the head with the hard metal side of the gun. The old man grunted in pain and fell to his knees, closing his eyes and grimacing against the sudden pain that surged through his body. The rest of the people in the room flinched with surprise as Steve struggled vainly to lift himself up from the table, but was stopped as Smith casually pointed the gun at him in warning.

Smith sneered as he turned his attention back to Erskine, betraying his first signs of emotion, "I think you'll find, _**Doctor **_Erskine, that this _**gun **_gives me the authorization to go wherever I like," he said, pointing the firearm down at the old man's head while he supported his body with his other arm. "Now the serum, please."

Blood was now trickling down Erskine's face into his mouth and he had to spit it out before he could mutter a reply, "Go to hell, Smith."

Smith shook his head disapprovingly, "I was afraid you'd say that."

Again without warning, showing a passionate, animalistic rage that shocked the onlookers in the room, Dr. Smith beat Erskine again with the gun, forcing the now profusely bleeding old man into an agonized ball at the traitor's feet. As cries of panic and fear began to emanate from the witnesses Smith fired a single shot straight up into the ceiling, immediately putting an end to any further noises.

Dr. Smith addressed Erskine once more, "Well, kudos to you for at least not being a fool _**and **_a coward," he said, still sneering while all Erskine could do was breathe heavily and bleed on the floor.

"So here's what's going to happen now," Smith continued, once again looking into the crowd. "One of _**you **_is going to hand me the serum, (see it's right there in the device in front of the table) or else the good Dr. Erskine gets shot in the face."

Nobody moved.

"Well let's not all volunteer at once," Smith said, sarcastically. "How about you, junior? Why don't you be a good boy and step up to the plate?"

All eyes turned to James, who was still standing in the corner next to Stick, "C'mon Bucky boy, heel-toe, okay?" Smith said, his voice dripping with impatient sarcasm.

James' brain raced with conflicting thoughts and feelings. He wanted more than anything to just charge Smith and beat the hell out of him, but unarmed as he was and square in the spy's sights, he wouldn't make it more than three steps before he was mowed down. He knew that wherever Smith was taking the serum, it could potentially be _**disastrous **_for the entire country, but on the other hand, he couldn't just stand there and watch while a human being was shot and killed right in front of him.

James' eyes reflexively turned to Steve, who wasn't looking much better himself. Just like everyone else in the lab, Steve felt helpless and scared. Despite his new body and abilities, he was unable to lift himself from the table he was half laying on, due to the toll that the serum had taken. Still, Steve didn't have many people in his life that he could call family, but Dr. Erskine was one of them, and Steve's pleading, desperate eyes told James everything he needed to know.

Don't do this. Don't give in to that traitor's demands.

James knew that the doctor had already made his choice. He was willing to die to protect his life's work, and James had to be willing to respect that decision.

Unfortunately, he couldn't tear his eyes away from the doctor. He suddenly looked so ancient and frail, laying there, doing everything he could just to keep breathing on the cold tile floor. His trusty clipboard had been knocked from his hands, and was now several feet away. His hair, which had always been wavy and wildly unmanageable, was now dampened and limp with the blood that was now caked inside it. His white HAZMAT suit was stained a dark crimson where the same blood had dribbled down it, and was pooling next to his shaking hands. He couldn't see the doctor's eyes through his tangled mass of hair, but James didn't need to see them to know the pain, turmoil, and betrayal that must have been breaking his heart.

The decision had already been made for him. Flashing Steve an apologetic glance, James slowly began walking towards the middle of the room, his eyes burning with anger and barely restrained fury as he stared straight ahead at Dr. Smith.

"I'm glad to see that _**some **_people here will still listen to reason," Smith said, obviously pleased with himself as he motioned towards the serum with the gun. "It's right there, boy."

James could see it. In front of Steve's table was a large computer terminal riddled with all sorts of control panels that James couldn't make heads or tails of. However, in the middle of the terminal was a small slot that a vial had been placed in. Apparently one of the terminal's functions must have been to administer doses of the serum into the mechanical arms that had injected Steve, and the remainder of the serum was still inside. James deftly reached in, flicked the nearby switch, and retrieved the serum, which still filled three-fourth's of the vial.

Looking down at his feet in disgust, James disdainfully handed the dark red vial over to Smith, who eagerly snatched it out of his hands, "Ah, finally! Now back away boy, you're bothering me."

James did as he was told.

Looking up into the crowd once again, Smith allowed himself a cruel, triumphant smile, "Dr. Erskine and I will now be taking our leave. If I catch even a _**hint **_of someone following me, you will all be short one project director. Do I make myself clear?"

Dr. Smith gingerly reached down to hoist Dr. Erskine to his feet. Beaten and weak, Erskine slowly and painfully began to get up, leaning heavily on the younger doctor's arm for support.

But apparently Dr. Erskine was more wily than he looked.

While Smith was using his full strength to bring the elder scientist to his feet, Dr. Erskine used this momentary vulnerability to full advantage. Taking Smith, and everyone else in the lab, completely by surprise, he reached around and smashed his elbow directly into the traitor's face.

"Now, James!" Erskine shouted, doubling over with the effort of his attack.

James didn't need to be told twice. He instantly sprang into action, jumping forward towards the stunned Dr. Smith, who was staggering backwards with his hand pressed against his broken nose.

Against the chaos and noise that rose to envelope the laboratory, only one shout rose up to dominate the room, Steve's single, heartbreaking bellow of protest. Of all of them, he was the only one with the super soldier serum now pumping through his veins. He was the only one with the heightened combat reflexes and superhuman senses that gave him an almost paranormal ability to asses danger in situations just like those.

As such, he was the only one who could tell that James' attack was futile. Dr. Erskine's assault had bought him only an instant at best, and James was just too far away. Steve would remember the next second for the rest of his life.

Still covering his face partially with his hand and glaring at him with a hatred that almost defied description, Dr. Smith fired the gun at his superior. Unable to stop him, James could only turn his head and watch as the bullet sped through the air, faster than the eye could see, and struck Dr. Erskine square in his forehead. Steve's eyes filled with tears, unable to cope with the fact that the only man he had ever considered a father was collapsing on the floor like a rag doll. He could only watch as the eyes of that odd, wonderful, brilliant man dimmed and faded, staring without sight at the ceiling of the laboratory that had been his life's dream to build, all only a foot or two away from Steve, who had been powerless to save him.

But James was not powerless. Instead of stopping to gawk as the doctor fell for the final time, he continued to barrel straight towards his assailant. Dr. Smith's twisted smile hadn't even left his face by the time he noticed James, who was practically on top of him already. Losing himself to panic, Smith fired off two more shots, which sped harmlessly past James.

Without uttering a word, with only a grunt of pure rage, James reached back and punched Dr. Smith with all his might, sending the slender man flailing backwards towards the door. As James continued his assault, eventually beating the doctor to the floor, bashing his fists down onto his face again and again, the gun was sent spiraling across the room.

Finally, with the blood from his raw knuckles indistinguishable from the traitor's blood, breathing hard from exertion and emotion, James paused his assault, "Got...got anything smart to say _**now**_...traitor?"

Despite the bloody, bloated, pulped mess his face had become, despite his shattered teeth, swollen eye, and broken nose, Dr. Smith still managed a smile, "Just this," he whispered in a cracked voice that only James could hear. "All hail the Third Reich."

With growing horror in his eyes, James watched as Smith held up what looked like a small detonator. Before he could do anything to stop him, Smith had flipped up the latch on top of the device and pressed the button underneath. James didn't even have time to blink before all hell broke loose.

The first explosion literally ripped the laboratory in two and instantly killed over half the scientists inside it. The subsequent explosions took care of what was left.

James regained consciousness slowly, haltingly, painfully. He didn't want to open his eyes, but they did so of their own volition. The laboratory, or what was left of it, was at a _**crazy **_angle, and at first he couldn't make sense of it, but eventually James' brain began fitting the pieces together. The walls and ceiling had all been blown to bits and he quickly realized that the explosions hadn't just been centralized to the lab module, but had destroyed the entire base. Shrapnel and smoldering rubble had replaced the futuristic high-tech equipment that had characterized Project Rebirth for years. Bodies and pieces of bodies lay strewn about all over the place, with nearly every inch of the base drenched in the blood of the victims.

Looking a little closer through his blurred eyesight, James could make out the remains of the bodies of most of the scientists that had been in the lab. At that point he couldn't tell if they were dead or alive, although he suspected the worst. Stick was halfway buried under an _**immense **_pile of debris a couple yards away. Trying not to panic, James glanced around for Steve, and was relieved to see him laying fairly far away from the center of the room where he had been, but at least his body appeared to be intact. It was only then that he saw the not so intact remains of Dr. Erskine on the floor near Steve, horribly scarred and disfigured from the explosion.

A wave of nausea washed over James, and he couldn't stop himself from hurling wretchedly. At this point he wasn't even completely sure that he hadn't accidentally gotten some vomit on himself, so extreme was his disorientation. Next his vision started to clear up as the ringing in his ears began to give way to muted sounds. The traumatizing scene around him began to take on new dimensions of horror as the sounds of the raging fires, falling rubble, and wailing, moaning people filled his ears. As James rolled over from where he'd been laying, upside down on his back, searching for any sign of help or salvation, from _**anywhere**_, he couldn't control the tears that seemed to fall from his eyes like rain.

That is, until he noticed the figure staggering through the debris several meters away. James' sadness and despair instantly turned to anger and fury at the sight of Dr. Smith, slowly and laboriously staggering away through the base. With a shout of immense pain, James picked himself up, fire in his eyes, thinking only of one purpose...apprehending the man that had caused such massive destruction.

Unfortunately, Smith had heard James' outburst, and after tentatively looking behind himself, he began doubling his pace. James would have to book it across the wreckage if he wanted to catch the doctor, but that would be difficult, because the best he could manage with his injuries was a fast paced limp. However, almost no one else was up so soon after the disaster, so James was the only one with any hope of catching the murderer.

The initial explosion had caused the huge underground facility to cave in on itself. This meant that those people that weren't instantly killed at first probably perished when the roof, which weighed several tons, collapsed on top of them, causing an enormous crater in the middle of the city. Smith knew that the only way to escape would be to haul himself out of the crater and get away before most of the authorities got there, counting on the chaos he'd caused to cover his exit. So far his plan was working, because despite the fact that he seemed to be gaining on his target, James could barely see him through all the fire, smoke, and wreckage.

"Get back here, Smith!" James shouted in desperation, as he emerged from yet another column of smoke.

That's when he caught sight of his prey again. Smith was already at the edge of the crater, having difficulty climbing out due to the unstable refuse and twenty foot ascent in front of him. In his failing condition, Smith was making bad time, and he was clearly panicking in his effort to escape James' wrath.

"It doesn't matter if you catch me!" Dr. Smith howled as James started climbing beneath him. "I've already won. Project Rebirth is destroyed and my mission is complete!"

"Well then I guess you won't mind if I leave you with a parting gift?" replied James, becoming more and more frustrated at his body's inability to co-operate with him.

Dr. Smith strained for one final handhold so he could finally lift himself from the remains of the base, "Do what you want to me, your efforts are futile. You've already lost the war anyway."

"We can always just rebuild Project Rebirth!" shouted James.

"Ha!" scoffed Smith, in a laugh born from disdain and victory as he finally found his handhold. "It took _**years**_ to get this base up and running, with the way things are now and without your country's vaunted secret weapons, by the time Rebirth is operational again it'll be far too late."

With one final heave of effort, Dr. Smith crawled to the top of the crater. With a malicious smile he finally got a good look at the upheaval his actions had caused. The blasted crater which was all that remained of the most sophisticated research facility in the world stretched for over half a square mile. The smoke from the blazing infernos within would be visible across the entire city. The wreckage would take months or even _**years **_to clean, and hundreds of America's top scientific minds had been eradicated within a single day.

Still, for Dr. Smith, the best part was that despite his broken bones, battered shoulder, bleeding body, and mutilated face, he had gotten out alive. And James Barnes, the sole person capable of bringing him to justice, was desperately clinging to the side of a near vertical, dangerously unstable brick wall, trying foolishly to catch up to him even though he still had a dozen feet to climb.

With an almost inhuman glint in his eyes and a cocky swagger, Dr. Smith reached in his pocket, "And you want to know the best part about singlehandedly destroying the best hope the Allied Powers had for winning this war?" he asked, holding up his hand for James to see. "That after all this, _**you **_still failed to keep me from getting away with the serum completely _**intact**_."

That was the last straw, "I'll _**kill**_ you, Smith!" James shouted, furiously raging at the man who had destroyed his whole world. "I'll _**kill**_ you! You hear me?"

"I highly doubt that," Smith replied, sitting down at the edge of the crater. "Say hello to Erskine and Rogers for me when you see them in hell."

That said, Dr. Smith sat down and braced both feet against the section of wall that hung just above the cliff. Then, grunting with the strain, he began pushing it away from the crater. Having only been precariously perched upright as it was, it only took a small force to push the wall back. James' eyes grew wide with fear, realizing that it was already too late to take action, for in his current condition he was far too slow, to get out of the way before the wall he was hanging on began fragmenting and collapsing.

Dr. Smith stood at the edge of the precipice, smiling ruefully as he watched James Barnes fall over thirty feet to the floor of the crater, instantly buried and left for dead under a ton of bricks and mortar. With one last look at the shattered, charred remains of the once proud facility, drinking in the devastation and incomparable death he had wrought, Smith turned and began hobbling away, his silhouette vanishing within moments amidst the dense plumes of smoke and ash.


	7. Chapter 7

The Age of Marvels: Chapter Seven

Captain America

and the

Invaders

Part Seven

_** During the darkest days of World War II, America stood united against the threat of the Nazi Germany war machine. Our Greatest Generation sacrificed everything in order to stem the forces of oppression from overrunning our very planet, led under the fearless banner of the greatest warrior of our time, Captain America. Inspired by his courageous example, and with the aid of his misfit band of Invaders, Captain America led the forces of freedom to victory, changing his world forever.**_

__October 2000

New Jersey

The home of Mr. Barnes

"Is that how you lost your arm?"

"Hmm? I'm sorry?" asked Mr. Barnes, shaking his head as he emerged from his reverie.

"Your arm," Colonel Fury repeated, pointing. "That's how you lost it, right?"

Mr. Barnes glanced down at his shoulder. It had been so long since the incident that he sometimes forgot that he was _**missing **_an arm. He was so accustomed to life without it now that it didn't even bother him. Still, to keep people from staring, he'd taken to wearing a coat over his shoulders and remaining arm to make it less obvious. He was surprised that Fury had noticed at all.

"You're a sharp one," Mr. Barnes said, chuckling. "But no, that happened a bit later, I'm afraid."

"Well, clearly you survived the explosion, and you must have made it out from under the wall that collapsed around you, or we wouldn't be here today."

"Too true, too true," Mr. Barnes laughed. "But it wasn't as simple as all that."

The old man turned serious as his mind traveled back in time once again, "As devastating as the tragedy had been for me, it was doubly so for Steve. However, the situation was a delicate one, and with the power that Steve now boasted, if he was to act impetuously, it would only make matters so much worse."

April, 1944

Mitchell Air Force Base, Long Island

Steve Rogers had been staring out the window for the last two hours. His stern, solemn expression refused to budge, his deep set frown instantly convincing any passers-by to give him a wide berth. His was an intimidating presence. Now almost seven feet tall, clearly well muscled and well disciplined, Steve hadn't moved an inch and stood solidly in front of the window with his arms crossed over his chest, almost as if daring somebody to approach him.

Of course, his mind had yet to focus on several new developments due to the catastrophe and its distracting effects. The fact that his body was now the polar opposite of the one he'd grown up with. The fact that he could accurately, intuitively predict how fast someone was moving, where they'd be thirty seconds from now, and what they were going to do next. The fact that his mind was making these unconscious calculations every waking second. And the fact that for the first time his physical appearance now matched the acute, focused, iron-willed spirit within. All these things had been completely ignored by Steve. These facts, which had irrevocably changed his life forever and would have stunned any other person, would have to wait until later. He had more important things to dwell on.

As far as he was concerned, the only thing that commanded Steve's attention that day, was bringing John Smith to justice. Nothing else mattered. This was the bright beacon that Steve's mind was solely focused on. That's just how he worked, how he'd lived his whole life. Steve would focus on a goal, and keep working towards it doggedly until it was achieved, no matter how unrealistic or far-fetched it might be. The only difference was that now his only goal was avenging the lives of his comrades...and now he had the ability to accomplish that goal...thanks to the now deceased Dr. Erskine.

Steve tried once again to blink back the tears which threatened to overflow onto his face. He didn't have time for tears, he could cry later. Right now there was a job to do, and people watching him. Since the news that he was the sole survivor of the super soldier serum experiment had gotten out, people had been treating him, looking at him…differently, especially the survivors of Project Rebirth.

Those people who had just had their friends, family, and home utterly destroyed saw Steve as their only hope. They had dedicated their lives, many had _**sacrificed **_their lives for the development of the first super soldier, their ultimate weapon against the Nazis. Seeing Steve as he now was, as opposed to what they knew he used to be, suddenly brought purpose and meaning to the tragedy that had shattered their lives. It brought meaning to the deaths, meaning to the hard work, and meaning to the smoking crater which now festered within the heart of New York. And it wasn't just the survivors, everyone at Mitchell saw him that way...everyone.

Steve closed his eyes, bowing his head. He didn't think it would be like this. He didn't think that becoming the super soldier would mean that the hopes and fears of everyone he had ever known would be resting on him like this. He hadn't thought that he alone would be responsible for seeing those dreams come to light. He had hoped that today would be remembered forever as a day of success and joy, a day in which he might finally feel validated for all his years of striving and fighting.

But it hadn't been that way. Instead, today would go down in history as a day of unprecedented loss and death. Today would be marked by suffering and tragic destruction on an epic scale. This was a day that dreams died.

Ironically enough, thinking back on it, Steve didn't even remember all of the events of the last twenty-four hours. He remembered waking up that morning, feeling almost as if destiny itself was guiding him, going to the lab, and he _**vividly **_remembered being injected with the serum. After that things got a little foggy.

With the toll that the serum had taken on him, Steve could barely move or think clearly, much less do anything about the situation that he saw playing out before him. Dr. Smith had held Dr. Erskine at gunpoint, using him as a hostage until he received the serum himself. But things had gone wrong, and Erskine had wound up getting shot. James had gone to chase him down, and then something had exploded and everything went dark. The entire scene had lasted less than ten minutes for him, and except for the searing pain in his heart caused by the death of his mentor, it almost seemed like it had happened to someone else.

The next thing Steve knew, he was being firmly shaken awake. Unsettled, he got to his feet and realized what had happened when he was witness to devastation the likes of which he'd never dreamed possible. The entire Project Rebirth complex had been utterly destroyed, and he was surrounded by the rubble and corpses of the people that had become like family to him.

But he didn't have time to stare for long, he'd been rushed into an evacuation convoy, along with any other survivors that could be found. That trip had been almost as bad for Steve as his initial awakening, as he was surrounded by people who were in much worse shape than he was, some of whom were dying right there in the truck.

Within the hour dozens of survivors had been transported to Mitchell Air Force Base on Long Island, and the only thing on Steve's admittedly shell-shocked mind was finding James Barnes. He had scoured the entire medical bay and shouted at half a dozen men, claiming that if he had to, he would _**walk **_back to Rebirth to find the body of his friend, before someone had finally showed him to the third floor of the hospital wing, where he had finally found him, unconscious but with no major injuries, laying peacefully in bed and already bandaged.

The doctors said that it would be only a matter of minutes or hours before James regained consciousness, and advised Steve to wait outside. Only then, when he'd made sure that his best friend was okay, had Steve permitted himself to sag into a chair in the lobby next to James' room, and weep uncontrollably at the nightmare he had suddenly found himself in.

It was almost as if the world was uncontrollably spinning around him, and there was nothing he could do about it. For the first time in his life, Steve didn't know what to do. He didn't know whether to thank God for saving James, or curse himself for letting Dr. Erskine die. He didn't know whether to cry for the loss of his mentor, or praise his lucky stars that his life's work had finally been achieved in Steve.

Along with this came feelings of inadequacy and guilt. Dr. Erskine had been one of the most brilliant men in the _**world**_. How was Steve supposed to live up to that kind of legacy? How was Steve supposed to embody everything that all these people expected him to be? It was his responsibility, _**his sole responsibility**_, to make sure that all those men had not died in vain, to make sure that the project that they'd risked their lives to complete changed the world like they'd always dreamed. Just how exactly was he supposed to do that all alone?

And that's when Steve realized that at the very least, he had a plan for now. He didn't know what the future held for him, or what the war would hold for him, but he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, what he was going to do _**now**_. He was going to _**find**_ and _**capture**_ Dr. John Smith, and he was going to bring him to _**justice**_ for his crimes. And Lord save him when Steve found him, because even though Steve had resolved not to forsake the justice that he'd always believed belonged to every man, he had little control over what _**shape **_Smith would be in when he was finally brought back to the authorities.

Of course, that all depended on if James woke up. Steve refused to leave the hospital while James was still there, no matter what. His loyalty was not contingent on any emergency or meeting. He belonged by James' side, and that's where he would stay.

"Hey there, Scab. Penny for your thoughts."

Steve turned to find James standing behind him, leaning against the wall for support. With a cry of happiness, Steve leaped at James, enveloping him in a hug that was equal parts sweet and bone-crushing.

"Ow ow ow! Watch the waterworks Steve, you're breaking my spine!" shouted James, trying not to laugh.

"Oh, sorry," Steve said, putting James back down having not realized he'd even picked him up. "How do you feel?"

"Like I got hit by a tank," admitted James, rubbing his arms. "You?"

Steve looked down at his feet awkwardly, "I don't know. I guess physically I'm fine, but it still feels a little strange. How am I supposed to feel after that kind of procedure?"

"Oh yeah, I'm an expert at biologically advanced super soldier physiology, you know," quipped James, his smile widening. "I'd actually be surprised if you _**didn't **_feel that way. I'd imagine it's pretty normal."

Steve smiled as he looked at his friend, "I'm glad you're okay, James."

"Yeah, you too, Steve."

"Yes yes, we're all fine and dandy," came the sound of a gruff voice from around the corner. "Now that we've all had a chance to wipe our little noses, can we get some _**real **_work done?"

Steve and James turned to see a middle aged, slightly overweight officer standing behind them. His stringy white hair was rapidly abandoning him, but the scowl planted firmly on his slightly wrinkled face suggested that he didn't give two craps about the state his hair was in. They got the instant impression that this was not an easy guy to get along with.

"But sir, James here is still recovering from..."

"Your country needs you when she needs you, boy. Nothin' I can do about that. Now come on."

The officer started at a brisk walk down the hallway, leading them to another door. Steve and James trailed behind him, the latter still trying to wrap his brain around this latest development.

"Steve, who is this guy?"

Steve whispered back, "This is Sergeant Phillips. He's the officer in charge of this base. He's been on my case since we got here about an officer's meeting."

James was still confused, "Then why am _**I **_coming?"

Steve steeled himself as he answered his friend, "Because you and I are the last surviving recruits to have graduated from Project Rebirth. Despite the fact that you were never administered the serum, you still completed Stick's training with honors, and that makes you an official combat specialist, one of the most distinguished in the U.S. Military, designating you as a priority."

James pretended to tear up with emotion, "...sniff...Mama Barnes will be so proud!"

"Shape up back there!" shouted Sergeant Phillips, opening a door. "This is it, boys. Try an' act your age, willya?"

Steve and James walked into a room just big enough to comfortably accommodate the large wooden table in its center. Over half a dozen obviously high ranking officials were already seated around it, some of whom were clearly becoming impatient for the proceedings to begin. Steve and James quickly took two of the only seats left, those that were close to the head of the table, where Phillips stood.

"Gentlemen, you've been here a while so let's not beat around the bush. I'd like to introduce you to Steve Rogers, the only successful recipient of the super soldier serum, and James Barnes, an accomplished combatist and the only other trainee survivor of the Project Rebirth program."

Steve and James nodded at the polite acknowledgement as well as for the other officers as their eyes widened and they realized who they were looking at.

Sergeant Phillips didn't give them long to exchange pleasantries, "With this in mind, let's not delude ourselves. Project Rebirth has been destroyed, along with most of its research, products, and personnel. Such was the complete devastation of the facility and employees that rebuilding it from scratch at this point is simply not an option."

A grim silence filled the room as every person in it became instantly solemn.

Once again, Sergeant Phillips took no notice of this while he continued barreling on with the bad news, "As far as intelligence can tell at this point, it is certain that Rebirth had been infiltrated at a very early stage, at least three years ago, by a man calling himself John Smith, who worked as the assistant to the project supervisor and brilliant head scientist, Dr. Abraham Erskine, who is numbered among the deceased."

James could see Steve flinch just a little at the mention of the doctor's name being thrown around so casually.

For the first time, Sergeant Phillips paused to take a deep breath before continuing, "Our top men have been working on this case almost since before it happened," Phillips explained. "Apparently John Smith is an alias. The traitor's real name is Johann Shmidt...and he has been identified as one of the Nazi's most high ranking and accomplished spies."

Phillips leaned down on the table in order to look his colleagues eye to eye, "This is an important one, people. This guy reports directly to Adolf Hitler himself. He is a _**very dangerous man**_."

The hairs on the back of Steve's neck bristled with hatred. Somehow just knowing the true name of the murderer made his loathing for him that much more tangible.

"Evidence suggests that Project Rebirth's downfall was not a spur of the moment kinda plan. Shmidt was forced to mastermind a scheme that would literally take _**years **_to come to light. First he successfully infiltrated the program, using his extensive scientific background and natural genius to his full advantage. Then, over a period that could have taken months or even years, he began attaching remote detonator bombs to the support pillars of the complex. Now due to the _**extensive **_security precautions taken at Rebirth, he would have had to map out the system, and wait for the exact right instant to attach the bombs to each of the _**dozens **_of load bearing columns and walls in order to remain undetected by the security cameras, which helps to explain why it took him so long to strike."

"More importantly," continued Phillips, his voice dropping. "Was Shmidt's original objective, which we have now identified, was to abscond with the main product of Rebirth, the super soldier serum which Dr. Erskine had spent his entire life developing."

"It is important to note that Shmidt did not reveal himself until _**after**_ the first successful test subject for the serum had emerged, meaning Captain Rogers here," Phillips said, motioning briefly to Steve. "Only then, after the serum had finally been perfected and he'd gotten all the information he needed, did Shmidt blow his cover, emphasizing two things. First, that the Nazis, for whatever reason, hadn't placed a high priority on _**any **_of the other experiments being tested at Rebirth. (That's a bad sign, folks.) And second, assuming their intelligence is as good as we believed, which is proven by the fact that their spies have apparently inserted themselves so deeply into our ranks, that they have made _**far **_less progress than we have with the serum, facilitating the need for them to steal information from us in the first place."

Now Sergeant Phillips was coming around to his point, "Of course, all of this has been rendered useless now, since Project Rebirth, our premier 'top secret' scientific facility and one of the only hopes we had of actually winning this war, has been blown to smithereens and most of the pertinent information gleaned from it is now in the hands of the Axis Powers. In short, gentlemen, we are effectively screwed."

As his speech had progressed, the atmosphere in the room had gotten more and more dark. The other officers, as well as James himself, were becoming increasingly depressed, as the totality of Shmidt's plan hit them full in the face. They had been played...brilliantly. Their every move had been predicted _**years **_in advance, and in one moment of ingenious disaster, their greatest weapon had been stolen from them to be used at the Nazis' earliest convenience. Their brightest hope would now become the German's greatest weapon.

While these thoughts understandably darkened the minds of everyone else present, they only served to make Steve more and more angry. He had never known fury like he was now experiencing, and the lack of energy that defined everyone else around him only served to fuel his emotions. Finally, at the end of the debriefing, it had reached the boiling point, and Steve stood up to his new full height, bristling with indignation and rage.

"I can't _**believe **_this!" he shouted, slamming his powerful fists down on the table, causing the others to flinch. "I spent my _**entire life **_dreaming of joining the U.S. military. I couldn't wait to fight and live with people whose courage and determination were _**legendary **_to guys like me. And now, now when we've discovered that the serum actually works, you all just want to lay down and _**die **_because of _**one **_setback!"

Steve was shouting at the top of his lungs, slamming his fist down as he emphasized every other word. Not showing the least bit of fear in front of the higher ranking officers, he boldly looked each one in the eye as he unprecedentedly criticized each and every one of them. So taken aback by his outburst was James, that he slouched down in his seat, nervous for his friend.

"We have the information and the technology to make Dr. Erskine's dream a reality," Steve insisted, looking from one officer to the other. "We have the power to win this war and avenge the ones who died for that goal. What are we waiting for?"

Not skipping a beat, Sergeant Phillips solemnly replied, "No we don't, boy. All the results, all the valuable information that Dr. Erskine and Project Rebirth discovered was written down on the doctor's clipboard. Anything designated top secret or above he refused to let anyone else record, he claimed for security reasons. That's just the way he ran things," Phillips said, shrugging.

"So what?"

Phillips looked Steve dead in the eyes, "That clipboard, and all the information it contained, was incinerated during the explosion, so there is no surviving record of how to reproduce the super soldier serum."

Steve was stunned. His fears had come true. He remembered, vividly, poking fun at the enigmatic doctor for the unprofessional way he recorded his experiments, but he never thought that his opinions, made in jest, would ever be made valid. Now Erskine's death had been made even more tragic by the fact that his life's work had almost been completely destroyed by his own unconventionality. Destroyed...except for the serum now inside Steve's body. Steve closed his eyes, grimacing inwardly as he felt the weight of the legacy that he alone could carry.

"It's _**not **_over," Steve said, almost growling as the words came out, matching Phillips' stern gaze with his own ferocity. "It's barely been a _**day **_since the catastrophe, Smith...I mean _**Shmidt**_...couldn't have gotten far. We can _**still **_catch him and find the serum. We can still do this."

"No, boy," Sergeant Phillips quietly said, unflinchingly staring Steve down. "Our men in intelligence believe that Shmidt wouldn't have struck unless he had a sure escape route handy. By now he's long gone, and the serum with him."

"I can _**find **_him," Steve insisted, passionately.

"You can_**not **_find him!" exclaimed Phillips, finally loosing his cool. "Now I have had about _**enough **_of you speaking out of turn, boy! Scientific miracle that you are, you have no _**right **_to speak to us like this! I brought you two in here for one purpose, to relay to you the orders that have been passed down to me from the _**White House**_. Now you either _**obey **_these orders, or the two of you will be court-martialled so quick that your _**heads **_will spin!"

"And what orders would _**those **_be?" Steve asked, in a dangerously soft tone, completely unafraid to directly oppose the Sergeant.

Phillips explained in the same cripplingly stern tone, "You and junior here are to be immediately deployed to the _**Pacific **_front. Casualties have been heavy over there, but the higher-ups believe that situation could change fairly soon. They think you two could be the straws that could break the camel's back, and could potentially swing the tide to our favor, giving us the advantage over there...you know, if you don't _**die **_first."

"What about the _**Nazis**_?"

Sergeant Phillips paused before answering, "The President believes that considering the loss of Project Rebirth, and with it's significant additional support falling into German hands, that the war in Europe is a lost cause. Within a matter of months, even Britain and its allies will have almost certainly fallen without our support, and the Russians are totally cut off from us, rendering their help negligible at best. They feel that the threat Shmidt now poses forces us to cut our losses and refocus on a fight we can still win. _**Yes**_, this means that the Nazis will occupy Europe as a whole and thus eventually pose a greater threat to us, _**but **_with the two of you out in the Pacific front, we stand a much better chance of defeating the Japs, which would _**still **_be a major victory."

Steve steadfastly shook his head, "That's unacceptable, Sergeant. I refuse to give up against the Nazis, especially after all they've done to us, just because the _**possibility **_of victory seems a little more remote now."

Now it was Phillips' turn to growl, "I'm afraid the decision is out of your hands, _**boy**_."

Steve's outrage once again burst forth, "_**Sergeant **_Phillips, I was not given this responsibility so I could cow-tow to a bunch of self-righteous, puffed up, useless pencil pushers who fancy themselves important enough to dictate the fate of the free world! Despite what you and the _**White House **_may think, Shmidt poses an _**enormous **_threat to national security, and it is my job...my _**duty**_...to make sure that he is brought to _**justice **_for his crimes! And I will _**die **_before I forsake that duty!"

"Stand _**down**_, Rogers!" Phillips shouted, furiously banging his hand down on the table.

"Go to _**hell**_, Phillips!" replied Rogers, slamming his chair back against the wall as he turned and stormed out of the room.

"Nice seein' you guys," James said apologetically as he hurried up to follow after Steve.

James sprinted to catch up with his friend, who was stomping at a quick gait down the hall, "I assume you know that now we'll probably be exiled from U.S. territory thanks to your little display in there. So what do we do? Join the French Resistance? Become pilots for the R.A.F? Sell hot dogs as street vendors?"

"We're going to find Johann Shmidt and stop him," Steve said stubbornly, keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead and not changing his pace in the least.

"Oh...okay," James replied, sarcastically. "I suppose you have a plan for just such an occasion locked away inside that super soldier brain somewhere?"

Steve stopped and turned to James, a slight smile spreading across his face, "Actually, I have absolutely _**no idea **_what to do," he admitted.

"I do."

Surprised, Steve and James turned to see Stick, one leg completely wrapped in bandages and leaning heavily on his cane, standing behind them. He was covered in burns and had lost some of his hair, but somehow the severity of his injuries made him look even _**tougher **_than normal, as opposed to the fragile state that most of the other survivors were in.

"Uh...shouldn't you be in a wheelchair or something?" asked James, tentatively.

"Wheelchairs are for suckers," Stick replied, without the hint of a smile. "Now walk with me, we don't have much time."

Steve and James were surprised to find that they had to almost jog to keep pace with the crippled old man as he hurriedly spoke to them in a hushed voice, "I heard everything that went on in that room..."

Steve began to ask, "How..."

Stick ignored him, "...and I agree with you guys. Maybe we're all just a little too shell-shocked from what happened at Rebirth, but dammit, this is personal, and it's too important to just let those crackpots at command foul it up again."

"Sir?"

"This is what you were trained for, guys. This is your chance to prove yourselves. Do this right, and you could save all our necks," said Stick.

"Do what right, sir?" James asked, still confused.

The three of them had entered a set of stairs and started climbing up, which confused Steve because he thought that they were already on the top floor. As the echoes of their footsteps began filling up the stuffy air of the staircase, Stick continued walking at his breakneck speed, not even pausing to breathe as he continued speaking.

"You guys are going after Shmidt…tonight, before anyone can stop you and he makes his getaway permanently. And I'm gonna help you."

"But sir, won't you get in trouble for that?" Steve asked, concerned.

"I've got some pull with a couple contacts at the White House," Stick answered, unconcerned with the question as they reached the top of the stairs. "Besides, when you guys make it back with the serum, we'll all be untouchable anyway."

"But how are we going to _**find **_him?" James asked, grunting as he pushed open the door and started down the dimly lit attic hallway.

Stick snorted, "I've got people. And in here is everything you'll need to do the job."

Steve and James followed Stick into a dusty, pitch black room, "What do you mean? What stuff? Where?"

Stick flicked on the light switch, "Right here."

Steve and James looked down to see a large metal crate, which had been placed in the center of the room, and was really more like a large closet, "That's a fireproof safe that Dr. Erskine had commissioned for just such an occasion," Stick explained. "I had my people sneak it up here during the chaos of the evacuation. Go ahead and open it up."

James grunted as he struggled to pry open the scorched box, "Who are these...ugh...people you have that you keep referring too, sir?"

Stick flashed a wry smile, "Kid, I could write a _**book**_ fulla all the stuff you don't know about me."

Steve finally wrenched open the lid, and puzzled, pulled out what looked like a set of clothes, "What is all this?"

"Those...are your uniforms," Stick explained, eyeing the pair carefully.

By now James had his in hand too, "They don't look like any uniforms I've ever seen."

"You two kids were trained and enhanced to become secret weapons capable of turning this war around and leading our country to victory," explained Stick, patiently. "To that end, you have to become something more than mere soldiers or warriors, you have to become a symbol, a symbol of our nation, of our ideals, something that our men can rally behind and believe in. These uniforms reflect those ideals, and what they stand for makes you more than just a man."

"Steve, as the world's one and only super soldier, you'll find that yours is a little more flamboyant. However, with _**your **_abilities, you should be able to easily handle whatever extra attention it gives you."

Steve looked over his new uniform with growing pride and anticipation. It was mostly blue, with red and white stripes going down vertically from his chest to his waist and a big white star square in the middle of his chest. The shirt itself was of a classic design, made with a large button down flap over his chest. It came with two large red gloves, blue pants, boots, and a standard military issue belt. Alongside the garments was a blue helmet with a fastener which went under his chin, with a large white 'A' in the middle of it, presumably standing for America. Underneath all this was a thin, leather pilot's flightsuit, complete with goggles to wear over his eyes for extra protection.

"Wow," Steve said out loud. "I've never seen anything like it."

"Well, wait 'til you see this," Stick said, shuffling over to a previously unnoticed corner of the room and unwrapping a large object.

With great pride gleaming in his eyes, Stick held up into the light what appeared to be a shield of classical design in a triangular shape. It too sported red and white vertical stripes below a blue background with a dozen white stars arrayed at the top. From the way Stick was holding it, it must have been more than a little heavy.

"Dr. Erskine had originally intended for several dozen of these to be manufactured," Stick enthusiastically explained. "But I'll be darned if they aren't _**ridiculously **_expensive. I guess now you'll have the only one," he said, thoughtfully.

"This baby was made from the most powerful metal alloys in the world," the old man continued. "Constructed from a blend of steel, titanium, and the strongest and rarest metal in existence, the newly discovered vibranium, this shield is virtually impervious to any force on planet Earth...theoretically."

"Well, _**that's **_good to know," James sarcastically muttered under his breath.

Stick took no notice of James, "_**Furthermore**_, this weapon is perfectly balanced and should be quite easy for you to handle with your level of expertise. Before long you should feel it almost as if it was an extension of your own body. And as you can see, it is large enough to fully protect you, and one or two other normal sized people, at any given time. It is, quite possibly, the finest weapon ever wielded by human hands."

So awed was Steve, as Stick handed over the shield to him for the first time, that he was totally incapable of speech.

"And what about me?" James asked, disdainfully. "You just gonna slap me on a pair of camos and hope I don't die too quickly?"

Stick chuckled, "Unfortunately kid, we never got to administer the serum to you, so we had to improvise your gig. As you can see, your uniform is done mostly in black, including your pants, shirt, belt, and small mask. Instead of Steve's one of a kind, custom built, defensive weapon, you have been issued a black ops chest harness, which can accommodate a dozen different firearms and explosives, as well as small hand to hand combat weapons, whenever you go into battle. And with the training you've received, that makes you a one man army even without any special serum enhancements."

James looked down at his feet, bashfully, "Well, I guess that's a _**start**_."

Wearing a rare expression of pride and sadness upon his face, Stick took a good long look at his two former recruits holding their uniforms and weapons, "I know this isn't how we planned it, kids, but that's how life usually goes, believe it or not. You two were supposed to be the first of a small army of super soldiers that were going to change the world, and now that responsibility falls solely on you guys. Don't let the pressure get to you. Just take one minute at a time, do your best, and let your training take over. If you can do that, I promise you'll make it out alive."

Stick was done with the pep talk, "Now I want both of you to get four hours of shuteye, and then we'll start the mission. It is _**imperative **_that we locate Johann Shmidt, and that we do it without alerting _**anyone**_. This is a covert operation, so we'll be using codenames only on the shorthand."

"Codenames, sir?" Steve asked.

Stick nodded, "That's right, kid. When in uniform codenames are to be used at all times. Steve Rogers: codename Captain America, and James Barnes: codenamed the Patriot. Remember that, and I won't have you shot when you return to base. Now get outta here and grab some sleep."

Steve and James walked out of the room slowly, their brains trying to absorb all the new information they'd just been privy too, "So every time I call your name, I'm supposed to say 'Captain America?" complained James. "That's too freakin' long, pal. Can't I just keep callin' you Scab?"

"Only if you want me calling you Bucky for the rest of your life," Steve quipped.

This got James' instant support, "Aye aye Cap'n. Just say the word and I'll call you whatever you want. Suzy, for instance. I think you'd make a good Suzy."

Trailing behind them, the only thing going through Stick's mind was that he _**must **_be crazy for putting the future of his career and country in the hands of these two. God save them all.


	8. Chapter 8

The Age of Marvels: Chapter Eight

Captain America

and the

Invaders

Part Eight

_** During the darkest days of World War II, America stood united against the threat of the Nazi Germany war machine. Our Greatest Generation sacrificed everything in order to stem the forces of oppression from overrunning our very planet, led under the fearless banner of the greatest warrior of our time, Captain America. Inspired by his courageous example, and with the aid of his misfit band of Invaders, Captain America led the forces of freedom to victory, changing his world forever.**_

October 2000

New Jersey

The home of Mr. Barnes

A silent pall settled over Mr. Barnes and Colonel Fury. The Colonel had just been told the story of one of the greatest moments in American history, the birth of Captain America. And he had heard it from the mouth of one of the only people who had lived it himself, Mr. James Barnes, who during World War II, had fought side by side with his friend as the Patriot. It took him a moment to take it all in.

As the sunlight from outside faded on them, Mr. Barnes' granddaughter walked into the living room, "We're about to begin supper. Would either one of you fine gentlemen like me to bring something out for you?"

"No thanks, ma'am," Fury said, politely.

"I don't think I could eat a bite right now," Mr. Barnes answered, staring off into space absentmindedly.

"Grumble_**blurble**_rumble," his stomach interrupted.

"Ooh!" exclaimed Mr. Barnes. "Looks like my gut disagrees. Two TV dinners for Colonel Fury and myself, please!"

"Coming right up."

Mr. Barnes waited until his granddaughter was out of the room, "So, uh, where were we again?"

"You were about to tell me about your first mission."

A shadow seemed to fall over the old man's face, "Oh yeah. It's funny how life is. Steve and I had waited our whole lives for this. A moment where we would rise above all the misery that had enveloped the streets of the city, a moment where we could become something bigger, _**better**_, something that people could look up too when they had so little else they could look too for hope."

"But...that's exactly what you _**became**_, right?" asked Colonel Fury, concerned.

Mr. Barnes stared at the floor, lost in his memories and regret, "Maybe...maybe that's what it looked like to everyone else, but on that night, on the night that Captain America was born, the only things that kept us going were our all too human, all too base, feelings of hatred and vengeance."

"Steve was going through things that I could only guess at," Mr. Barnes continued, quietly. "I have never seen anyone as conflicted as he was that night, because on that night, he was consumed with the knowledge, even if nobody else was, that Captain America had been born just as much by rage and blood and fire, as he was by his own determination, convictions, and sense of justice."

"For the first time Steve Rogers didn't know who he was. But that night he would make the choice that would define the course of the rest of his life."

April, 1944

New York, New York

(Undisclosed marina dock on the shores of NYC)

"Raaagh! Rrrrrrruaghauh!"

"Hold him down! _**Hold him down, dammit**_!"

"I can't! He's thrashing around too much!"

"Where's the medkit? I need the &*%#ing medkit!"

"There's too much blood! Oh god, there's too much blood!"

"AAAAAHHHHGH...ahuhuh..."

The agonized screams and sobs of the patient could not be hidden or muffled by the cripplingly black darkness that the night had shrouded the marina docks in. In fact, considering the uncharacteristic silence that embraced the city that night, if anything, the chilling noises were magnified. But while the volume of the screams unsettled the guards and soldiers stationed around the docks, causing them to remain even more paranoid and vigilant than normal, they were comforted by the fact that that same darkness rendered them nearly invisible to any prying eyes. So complete was the pitch blackness that even those soldiers desperately wheeling their ward into the warehouse could barely see each other, or the victim they were caring for who was at death's door.

"Okayokayokay, I've got the medkit, now let me take a look at the...my god..."

"Well what are you waiting for? _**Do something**_!"

"I...I can't...(ugh)...I can barely stand to _**look **_at him," said the doctor, gagging. "What do you expect me to do with someone in _**his**_ condition?"

"Well you'd better do _**something**_, dammit, or the Fuhrer will have all our _**heads**_!"

"Aren't you listening? There's _**nothing I can do**_! The man's organs are hanging out, for god's sake! It doesn't even look like he still has a _**face**_! It's a miracle he wasn't dead an hour ago!"

As the rest of the people pushing the gurney backed off, amidst more agonized cries from the writhing patient, the one remaining soldier grabbed the doctor by his collar, shaking him savagely, like an animal, "Listen you *%#! I didn't come all this way to get screwed over by a doctor who's too afraid to even _**look at **_his _**patient**_! Now you either _**do **_something _**now **_or I swear to god I will put a bullet in your brain!"

The officer pulled away from the doctor, using a shaking and panic stricken hand to pull his gun out, aiming it straight in the other's face.

"Yeeeaaa_**ieea**_gghhuh!" screamed the patient, instinctively reaching out and grabbing the nearest object to him, which just happened to be a fistful of the doctor's shirt.

Sweating profusely, whimpering, and appearing to even be on the verge of tears, the doctor, trembling, wrested himself away from the patient, "Alright, I'll see what I can do! (Christ save me, I'm as dead as _**this **_one is)."

But as the doctor reached into the medkit, knowing that if the patient's death was blamed on him he would not live to see the sunrise, something caught his attention, "Wait, what is that?"

The officer bent down to pick up the small object that had slipped from the patent's jacket during his last spasm, "I...I think it's...the _**serum**_..."

The tentative, pale light of the moon briefly flashed across the doctor's glasses as he stopped what he was doing, ignoring the patient's pain, staring transfixed at the vial which contained the serum, "Hold it...I've got an idea...I think."

New York City is a big place. Those who've never been there, who've spent their entire lives in whatever towns or smaller cities that they call home, look at a map and think, well really, how large can one place be? Those same people, when they finally arrive as tourists, catch their first view of Manhattan as they cross over the bridge and think, holy crap, I've never _**ever **_been more wrong.

If America is a planet, then New York is the cultural star that planet revolves around. Nothing to see, for miles and miles and miles, other than buildings upon buildings. There are the smaller buildings that comprise the basis upon which the rest of the city is built, bigger buildings that could dwarf the average tourist until he feels like nothing more than an ant, and then even _**bigger **_buildings that eclipse their brethren and when they're hungry, proceed to eat them at their leisure. Yes, New York is a jungle, and in that humming, thriving, constantly moving jungle, there is one single law which governs everything. The law of the jungle...survival of the fittest. Eat or be eaten, kill or be killed. Stagnation means unavoidable, irrevocable, instant death. To stop moving, even for an instant, even just to blink, breathe, or sleep, gives the enemy the advantage, and the sooner you learn that, the better your slim chances of survival become. People wonder why New York is the city that never sleeps, the city that is known for its people who are constantly on the move, constantly rushing, constantly working. They don't understand the mindset of the New Yorker, they don't understand that they live this way not because they choose too, but because they _**have **_too.

It is that stinking, putrid, steaming, pulsating, throbbing _**mass **_of hysteria that Steve Rogers had always hoped, _**prayed**_, that he could overcome. New York consumes you and redefines you. It is a force of nature, and just as assuredly as if you were to stop moving, if you try to get it to conform to you, instead of _**you **_conforming to _**it**_, the city will eat you whole, and no one will ever see or hear from you again. Whether for good or ill, Steve Rogers was one of the few people who couldn't accept that. He was one of the few people who both refused to bow to the city, and lived to tell the tale. This had given him a unique drive, a unique _**strength**_, that could not be found anywhere else in the world, except for in the heart of this one man.

But now that heart was slowly being overrun and strangled by the very emotions it had always striven against. Just as a vine will creep up a tree, split apart, multiply, and choke the life out of it so that it can further feed itself, so had the events of the past two days created the emotions that were slowly suffocating Steve Rogers, burying him underneath the baggage that he had not yet had the time to deal with.

As you could imagine, it's easy to get lost and overwhelmed in a city like New York. In the confusion and panicked stampeding that its people are forced to run every day just to survive, it's easy to miss the minute details all around. Those details that, if you took the time to listen, would reveal themselves as the tiny wheels and cogs that are the heart of the city, that keep it ticking despite itself.

And so, in the deserted neighborhood just within sight of a supposedly abandoned waterfront warehouse, it was easy to overlook two crouched figures, stealthily concealed in the shadows of the night. Expertly trained by the best of the best to only let themselves be seen when _**they **_chose to be seen, and not a moment sooner. These were two of the deadliest people on planet Earth, and from their surreptitious perch on the low rooftop, they _**owned **_that city. After spending their entire lives in the thrall of a city which didn't care whether they lived or died...they finally had risen above it. There was not a thing in the _**world **_that could surprise them now.

"_**Eeeek**_! A _**spider**_!" shrieked James, instantly popping eight feet straight up into the air.

"Sit _**down**_!" Steve said, grunting as he shoved James back down with a surprising strength that his friend still hadn't gotten used too yet.

"What's going on over there?" Stick asked, his voice crackling over the static of the walkie-talkie.

"Patriot got scared by a spider," Steve answered.

"What?" Stick asked, clearly puzzled.

"It was a really _**big **_spider!" James protested, wringing his hands together.

"Dammit Patriot, you're _**professionals **_now! Act like it!" Stick bellowed over the walkie. "Remember, I'm not the only one who stuck his neck out for this chance for you two to fix things. We're _**all **_getting the axe if you flub this up, now start giving this mission the gravity that it deserves and get your head in the game! Stick out."

"Yessir," James squeaked, meekly.

For the next five minutes a tense silence stood between the two friends like a wall, blocking off all communication. James had never seen Steve like he was now..._**ever**_. He barely spoke, and even then his tone was curt, to the point, almost rude. His face seemed to be stuck in a perpetual scowl, which was unsettling to say the least. Perhaps _**most **_unusual, Steve seemed even more focused than he tended to be, but maybe because James had known him for so long, he could tell that this focus, this attention, was fueled by the hatred, rage, and turmoil boiling just under the surface, not the compassion and healthy ambition that had gotten him there. James felt like he hardly knew his friend at all anymore.

"Steve..." James started to say when he couldn't stand the silence anymore.

"It's Captain America when we're in uniform, Patriot," Steve replied in a businesslike tone.

"Do I really have to call you _**Captain America **_every time I need you, Steve? It's kinda long, isn't it?" James asked, trying to crack a joke to lighten the mood. "Captain America, give me the binoculars. Captain America, go punch that guy over there. Captain America..."

"Will you _**shut up**_!" shouted Steve, furiously. "Project Rebirth is _**gone. **_It's _**gone**_, James, along with the _**hundreds **_of people who worked there! Dr. Erskine is _**dead**_! He's dead and he's _**never coming back**_! I don't even know my own body anymore! I'm the only person like me in the entire world! What does that make me? The Nazis are _**winning **_and we're two of the only survivors of the only hope we had of beating them and if we don't do this right tonight we're _**screwed**_! So why are you making jokes, James? _**Why the hell are you making jokes**_!"

James didn't know what to say, "...Steve, I..."

"Just don't James. Don't say anything," Steve said, interrupting him with a dejected shake of his head. "And...just call me _**Cap **_if the whole codename thing is too long."

James knew that was the best he would get out of his friend for now. It would take him a while to get used to being called by a codename. Even though he understood the need for them, it still sounded silly. Looking over at Steve, he realized that it would also take a while before he got used to his friend being _**bigger **_than he was. Heck, Steve looked like he could bench press four of _**five**_ guys James' size now. A lot had changed over the last few days, their entire lives had changed, and James couldn't help but wonder what kind of people they would be when they finally made it through this to the other side..._**if **_they made it to the other side.

"What are we doing here again?" James asked, sheepishly.

Steve sighed, "Stick's people tracked Shmidt to this area, which is supposed to be largely deserted, and would make an _**ideal **_place for him to be extracted out of the country. _**We've **_just verified this, since that marina warehouse is _**crawling **_with guards and personnel, which we would assume are the Nazi spy's base of operations over here."

"Well, you know what happens when you _**assume**_," James said, trying another joke.

Steve ignored his friend, "_**Our **_job is to infiltrate the base, secure the stolen serum as well as any other top secret information they may have gathered, apprehend Shmidt, and to shut down this entire operation."

"And...we're gonna do that just the two of us, are we?" James asked, skeptically.

Steve turned his head to look at James, striking quite a figure as the moonlight struck the stars and stripes on his uniform and glinted off his triangular shield, "We're not just two kids from the block anymore, Patriot. Things have changed."

"Clearly," James muttered, under his breath.

"You are one of the most highly trained combat experts this country has ever seen," Steve said, trying his best to sound encouraging. "And _**I **_am the world's one and only super soldier. If anything, _**you **_should be nervous for _**them**_."

"Thanks, Ste-"

"Guard change now!" exclaimed Steve, dashing from the rooftop in a red, white, and blue flash.

"Steve, wait up!" Patriot shouted, struggling to keep up with his partner.

"It's _**Captain America**_, and get the lead out, or you'll give away our position!"

"I'll give away _**your mom's **_position..." James muttered, picking up his speed.

The roof of the marina warehouse was eerily quiet and dark as two soldiers continued their patrol, trying to keep an eye out for anything unexpected.

"It is too quiet tonight, fellow Nazi. I do not like it."

"Agreed, fellow Nazi. Especially after Herr Shmidt's...unsettling return."

"Do you know what _**happened **_to him, fellow Nazi? Is he even still alive?"

"I do not know, fellow Nazi. But I would not like to be the one to find out."

"Nor I, fellow Nazi."

"Say, you know one of the things I like best about being in the Nazi Party?"

"What is that, fellow Nazi?"

"These nifty swastikas we get to wear on our arms!" the guard exclaimed, excitedly holding up his red and black arm patch. "I think they really bring out my eyes."

The other guard examined his own swastika more closely, "You know, I never noticed that before, fellow Nazi. Hey, what's that over there?"

In the blink of an eye, Captain America leaped onto the roof, flooring the two stupid guards in one fluid motion. The only sounds that could be heard was the clang of his shield and the softer impact of his heavy boot connecting with his other's head. Patriot joined him only a split second later, and just moments after they discovered the skylight window several yards away, they were inside the warehouse.

"Okay, what are we looking for?" James asked as his feet touched the floor inside the warehouse.

Steve tried to take a quick look around, "Some kind of computer or more likely a file cabinet or something, probably in a small office off to the side somewhere."

As Steve's eyes got more adjusted to the darkness, he took comfort in the fact that the abandoned warehouse's layout was much like he'd expected. The majority of the building was dedicated to the main storage room in the middle, which was almost totally barren, except for the dust and papers which lay scattered across the floor. Doors to smaller rooms could be seen against the opposite wall, and it was these doors that he was interested in.

"Looks just like any other old decrepit dump," James commented.

"That's the way they _**want **_it to look," Steve said, keeping his voice down. "But don't let it fool you. This place is crawling with Nazis, so keep your head down, okay?"

"Yeah...sure," James stuttered, trying his best to gulp down the fear that was gnawing at his gut.

James followed Steve as they stealthily made their way across the floor of the warehouse. They had no trouble getting to the opposite wall, and remained undetected as they silently peeked into each of the rooms. The results they found proved that their information had been correct. Several of the rooms had apparently been modified as barracks for the soldiers. There was also a cafeteria, ammunitions room, an infirmary, and several offices. It was these offices that commanded the friend's attentions as they sneaked into the most opulently decorated one.

"What do we got in here?" James asked as he clicked the door shut behind him.

Steve took out his flashlight, "Looks like a computer and a desk full of files. I'll take the computer if you look through what's in the desk, okay?"

James crouched down behind the desk while his friend took the computer chair, "It's still weird seeing a computer out in real life," he said, flipping through the papers in front of him as fast as he could. "I mean, most people haven't even _**heard **_of them. I feel like a little kid playing with toys around all this advanced technology."

"It's the future, Patriot," Steve muttered as he started snooping around the computer systems. "Now keep your eyes open, okay?"

"Why?" James asked, throwing a file to the ground and taking out a new one. "Aren't we just gonna torch this place once we're done with it anyway?"

"Yes, but the information we find here could _**still **_be invaluable," replied Steve, pausing as he opened a particularly important looking folder. "Hey, come take a look at this."

James peered over Steve's shoulder, confused, "Okay okay, stop. Lemme see what those files are that you just skipped over."

"Alright, we know what Project Rebirth was. That was the operation we were in that developed the super soldier serum," Steve said, puzzled. "But what the heck is Operation Overlord?"

"And what is Project Trump Card?" James asked, just as confused. "That sounds important. Here, download all that information here on this disk, and then we can get out of here."

Unfortunately the disk hadn't been in the computer for any more than a minute before the wall beside them exploded and threw them from their places in front of the desk. Splintered wood and shattered furniture flew across the room, crashing against the opposite wall along with the two men. So massive was the explosion that it completely exposed the small office to the rest of the warehouse, totally blowing Steve and James' cover.

"Grab the disk, quick," Steve grumbled, managing to slide the disk to James before anyone could notice as they were both partially covered by debris.

"Steve Rogers and James Barnes," said the tall, muscular figure who was draped in shadows that stepped over the wreckage that used to be a wall. "Stand up so I can kill you."

"I don't know who you think you are, but..." Steve said as he stood up and reached for his shield.

Steve and James froze as they heard the sound of several dozen guns being cocked, "I wouldn't do that if I were you," said the big figure. "I don't wish to forfeit the pleasure of killing you myself."

Steve and James turned their heads as the sight of about fifty people, slowly becoming visible through the quickly dissipating smoke, met their eyes. Each and every one of them had their guns pointed directly at the pair. James completely froze, amazed that Steve could stand so strong and proud straight up next to him, even in the emotional state he was in.

"I'll say it one more time," Captain America said, showing not even a hint of fear. "I don't know who you think you are, but I'll give you only _**one chance **_to surrender."

"Well I hope you enjoy the feeling of superiority that offering your enemy the opportunity to surrender gives you," said the figure. "Because that's more than I'm going to grant you."

"Who are you?" Steve asked, squinting in an effort to catch a better glimpse of the man.

"You mean you don't recognize me?" said the figure, gloating. "Why don't you take a closer look?"

Slowly the figure stepped into the relative light of the shattered remains of the office. The tattered clothing that still clung to his frame didn't overly shock Steve and James, nor did the fact that apparently the man stood at a surprising eight or nine feet. What _**did **_take the friends aback was the realization that the skin covering the _**massive **_amount of bulging muscles which appeared all over the mystery man's body had been dyed a deep shade of crimson red. Furthermore, his entire body was absolutely _**covered **_in all manner of scars, scabs, cuts, and bruises, to the point that it was almost sickening. But further still, the last feature of his to appear was by far his most disturbing one. His face looked as if it had met with a terrible accident, an accident that had torn it clear off his head, leaving behind only the horrid, petrifying image of his bare skull, disfigured just like the rest of his incredibly intimidating frame with a disgusting crimson discoloration.

James' mouth hung open in astonishment. He had _**never **_imagined _**anything **_like that before.

Steve couldn't keep his face from cringing with disgust, "What...what _**are **_you?"

The thing's eyeballs turned sickeningly in their sockets as they rose to meet Captain America's gaze, "What _**am **_I? I'm the same as you, Rogers. I'm what Project Rebirth...what this _**war **_has made me."

"Shmidt? What happened to you?" asked Steve, his eyes widening as he vaguely recognized the traitor.

Shmidt flew unexpectedly into a rage, "Shmidt? Do I _**look **_like Johann Shmidt to you? I was _**dying**_, Rogers! The explosions that I triggered _**destroyed **_my body. It was all I could do to get away from your little friend there," he said, nodding to James, who was still crouching on the floor.

Shmidt continued his rant, free to say whatever he wanted while his men were still aiming their guns at Steve and James, "When they rushed me over here I was at death's door. My body was horribly mutilated beyond all hope of recovery. The only thing they could do, was to give me some of this..."

Shmidt held up a small, dark red vial for Steve to see, "They administered the serum to me, a dose _**twice **_as large as yours was, right through the massive wounds I'd incurred directly into my bloodstream. And _**this **_is the result. This is what such a dose would do to a body that had been traumatized to the extent that mine was."

"How did you survive?" Steve asked, barely above a whisper.

Shmidt almost shrugged, "I guess us Germans are just made of tougher stuff, Rogers."

Shmidt's voice rose even higher as his twisted, death's head of a face contorted in ever more hideous ways, "Do you see, _**Captain America**_? _**This **_is the price that I paid for _**my **_country! _**This **_is the extent of the love that I feel for the _**Fuhrer**_! I _**never **_want to hear you worthless Americans boast about your vaunted commitment and sacrifice that you put towards the war, _**because you aren't willing to go as far as I did**_! _**This is why you lose**_!"

Steve's eyes never failed to meet Shmidt's hateful gaze, "It's funny, I almost feel sorry for you, Shmidt. But I can't forgive what you did. Surrender now, and you can avoid any further pain."

"_**I don't need your pity**_!" screamed Shmidt, his tone rising to a desperate, trembling crescendo of anger. "_**I'll kill you, Rogers! I'll kill your whole country! I'll kill your whole world!**_"

Without warning, taking Steve and James completely by surprise, Shmidt lunged at Steve, tackling him and launching both of them out of the smaller room and onto the floor. Before James could even attempt to get up, the soldiers who had been targeting him opened fire, raining bullets down upon his position. Yelping in terror, James ducked behind the limited cover that the demolished desk provided, reaching for his guns and closing his eyes as he prayed a silent, frantic prayer.

Only a few meters away, the fight between Steve and Shmidt had already reached a fevered pitch. Each blow that they let loose echoed across the warehouse, almost louder than the gunfire which peppered Jame's cover. Both Steve and Shmidt were each strong enough to burst through a wall or pick up a car without too much trouble, and with their enhanced speed and stamina, this resulted in a super fast paced, epic brawl the likes of which the world had never seen. This was a new kind of warfare, the kind that would revolutionize the future, and would come to define the next century as the age of marvels.

"Aaahh! Cap, what do I do?" shrieked James, cowering behind the rapidly deteriorating protection of the desk.

"Just remember your training!" Steve yelled, taking a swing and missing Shmidt.

"There's nothing I can do!" James yelled back, daring to take a look over the desk. "There's no opening!"

"Then _**make **_an opening!" shouted Steve, frustrated as he took another bone crunching blow to his jaw.

"Make an opening, he says," James muttered, reaching for more ammunition. "This guy's gonna _**kill **_me."

Gathering his courage, the Patriot flung three grenades over the desk and into the crowd of soldiers, and tossed a fourth one a bit beyond his hiding place. All four of them exploded at exactly the same time, and James used the smoke from the nearest one as cover as he leaped over the desk, twin guns blazing from both hands, screaming in defiance and disbelief that he appeared to actually be pulling off his maneuver.

However, he knew that his tactics would only buy him a smoke screen for a few seconds, and he was already bolting for the stairs to the second floor, which would give him a more permanent advantage as he would have the high ground, able to shoot the enemy without them being able to shoot back.

"What's th' _**plan**_, Cap?" he shouted as he gained the stairs amidst a new onslaught of gunfire.

Steve grunted as he finally shoved Shmidt against the wall, slamming the heavy, blunt edge of his shield at the space where his opponent's head had been only an instant before, and shattering the brick off the wall itself, "I'll handle the traitor and get the serum back! _**You **_take out these soldiers for me!"

"_**What**_?" James shouted. "I'm _**only **_outnumbered fifty to one! Why do _**I **_get the hard part?"

Shmidt kicked Steve's legs out from under him, grabbing him when his guard was down and throwing Steve with such force that he blasted through the wall, clear outside the warehouse. Shmidt allowed himself a malicious grin of satisfaction before he leaped through the gaping hole he'd made to continue the fight outside, leaving only a pile of rubble and a cloud of dust where James' friend had been only a moment before.

Ducking down to avoid yet more incoming fire, James gulped, "Well...I guess I'm on my own now," he thought, once again turning to face the overwhelming forces arrayed against him, trying his best not to let himself be consumed by the fear that now that he and his partner were completely separated, he didn't have what it took to stay alive by himself. It was time for the Patriot to sink or swim. It was time for him to prove himself.


	9. Chapter 9

The Age of Marvels: Chapter Nine

Captain America

and the

Invaders

Part Nine

_**During the darkest days of World War II, America stood united against the threat of the Nazi Germany war machine. Our Greatest Generation sacrificed everything in order to stem the forces of oppression from overrunning our very planet, led under the fearless banner of the greatest warrior of our time, Captain America. Inspired by his courageous example, and with the aid of his misfit band of Invaders, Captain America led the forces of freedom to victory, changing his world forever.**_

__October 2000

New Jersey

The home of Mr. Barnes

"Dang, so you guys were in trouble," Colonel Fury commented as he took a sip from his drink.

"No kidding," chuckled Mr. Barnes, coughing a little. "I was surrounded by Nazis, barely hanging onto my life, and Steve was outside fighting...whatever Shmidt was at that point. I had no idea _**how**_ he was doing."

Fury shook his head in disbelief, "That's incredible. You two were taking out an entire base all by yourselves. It's too bad we don't have soldiers like you these days."

Mr. Barnes grew quiet, "Yeah...it's too bad."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to speak out of turn," the Colonel apologized, seeing the effect his words had on the old man.

"No, it's quite alright," Mr. Barnes acknowledged. "Anyway, it's one thing to be a soldier, but certainly another to let the fight get to you and keep you from becoming the person you always wanted to be. That night, Steve had to make the personal choice to not let the passion, anger, and violence of the war consume him, or rise above it to truly embrace the mantle of Captain America."

April, 1944

New York, New York

(undisclosed marina dock on the shores of NYC)

"AAAAAAAHHHHH…(deep breath)...AAAAAAAHHHHH!"

James Barnes, recently codenamed the Patriot, wasn't fully aware that he was screaming like a little girl. Perhaps even more embarrassing, he _**also **_wasn't aware that he had been doing it nonstop for the last five minutes. This had resulted in several unforeseen negative consequences. First, it had _**utterly **_given away his position, drawing several dozen Nazis towards him (which consequently, had assured that Steve was left alone with Shmidt), and secondly, it meant that even the guards who had been stationed on the roof of the warehouse had begun to descend upon James like flies.

What was the Patriot doing about it? He was busy cowering in a remote corner of the second floor, taking random potshots at the enemy between scampering from hiding place to hiding place, completely oblivious to the fact that the entire enemy force knew exactly where he was sneaking too almost before he got there due to his incessant screaming.

As Patriot turned the next corner, trying to squeeze into a nearby closet for some cover, he ran into another group of three or four Nazi soldiers. Screaming with renewed vigor, he ratted off another round of fire, his highly trained reflexes giving him an advantage over the enemy. Unfortunately, two surviving Nazis began pursuing him along the narrow second floor catwalk, guns blazing.

James took a breath between screams, taking a moment to reload his guns, and looked up just in time between reloading, running, and dodging incoming fire, to notice another six Nazis stampeding down the stairs from another spot on the roof just ahead. Cursing silently to himself and wishing profoundly that Steve was there, the Patriot clenched his eyes tightly shut and did the only thing he could in those circumstances...he jumped right in the middle of the enemy forces.

Pandemonium ensued. Relying on his formidable hand-to-hand combat skills, the Patriot began laying waste to his foes. Outnumbered though he was by something like eight people, he nevertheless had the advantage. The _**last **_thing the Nazis from the roof had expected was for James to fly so recklessly among them, and thanks to the confusion provided by the extremely dim lighting, the bullets raining up from the first floor, and the chaos provided by Patriot himself, the soldiers that had been chasing him began mowing down their own comrades in their poorly-aimed haste to kill James.

In only about thirty seconds, the Patriot had subdued the last Nazi on the second floor by smashing him upside the head with the body of another one of his victims. Breathing hard, and wiping away the blood that was caked on his uniform, James looked up from the pile of bodies surrounding him, rolling his eyes in exasperation as he saw another several dozen enemies ascending the staircase to the second floor to get a better shot at him.

"_**Man**_, these guys just don't quit!" James griped, firing toward the staircase in an effort to delay the Nazis.

Reaching for another grenade, Patriot pulled the pin out of it with his teeth, never pausing his relentless shooting for a second. Throwing the grenade with all his might, the tiny projectile sailed across the warehouse, detonating just above the staircase, blowing the enemy clear through the wall and demolishing the last way up to James' position.

Unfortunately, it also destroyed a major load bearing support, and the entire floor began to pitch and lean, groaning under the pressure of the damage James had caused. Patriot began to try and scramble to his feet, desperate to stay away from the gaping hole the floor was sagging towards. The pit he created was filled with the flames and sharp, dangerous debris from the grenade he'd thrown. The irony didn't escape the Patriot as he realized that he might be about to die due to his own idiocy.

"Nice going, _**Patriot**_," James said to himself, sarcastically. "Who's gonna save you _**now**_?"

The battle outside the warehouse was even more intense than the fight raging inside. Captain America and his opponent, Johann Shmidt, who had been horribly transformed and disfigured into a crimson goliath whose face had been torn away to reveal a red skull, were engaged to a deadly duel on the docks of New York.

Shmidt had consumed _**twice **_the amount of serum that was administered to Steve, in an effort to save his life from the damage it had inflicted when he destroyed Project Rebirth. As such, he had morphed his body into one whose raw power threatened to tear Steve limb from limb. It took all of Captain America's speed, agility, and superior training, as well as his one-of-a-kind shield, to stay one step ahead of Shmidt. That said, the battle was nearly even, with no one man having a clear advantage against the other.

Their combined power had already blown a hole through the wall of the warehouse. Their punches broke bones and cracked concrete, with each blow possessing the energy of a small explosive charge. So fierce was their battle that they could barely hear the overwhelming sounds of gunfire from the inside of the building. Their minds were only in the moment, knowing that they could not afford to make a single mistake, lest they lose their edge, and suffer the wrath of the enemy.

"Face it, Shmidt, you're done here," Captain America said, throwing a devastating blow to the Nazi's face. "Patriot and I are gonna shut you down."

"Please, Rogers!" Shmidt scoffed. "There is no way in _**hell**_ Barnes can take on my entire force himself, even _**with **_Stick's training. As for you, well, I'm gonna dump your body in the bay and take your shiny shield home for the Fuhrer as a trophy!"

With a grunt of exertion, Shmidt swung at Steve, who expertly blocked the blow with his shield. Anticipating this, Shmidt took the opportunity to grab the shield and shove Captain America to the ground, where he began pounding him over and over again, each crushing blow even more powerful than the last.

"And another thing! Stop calling me _**Shmidt**_, Rogers!" he bellowed, his words interspersed between each pound of his inanely large fists. "I'm _**different**_ now! I don't even have a _**face**_ anymore! What have _**you**_ sacrificed for this power, Rogers?"

Encrusted in the concrete crater he'd been smashed into, Steve tentatively peeked out from behind his battered shield, blinking the blood out of his eyes as Shmidt paused from his onslaught, "I guess you're right, traitor," he managed to reply, spitting a broken tooth out of his mouth. "The deaths of a _**hundred **_innocent people don't hold a _**candle **_to the pain of you losing your pretty _**face**_, does it? You better win this fight, Shmidt. You wouldn't wanna scratch that shiny _**skull **_now, would you?"

"_**Shut up**_!" Shmidt roared, furiously stomping Captain America into the ground in a blind rage. "I'm more than just a _**skull**_!"

But Steve, lying bleeding and broken in his concrete hole, could no longer hear him.

The Patriot shouted in fear, desperately scrambling to find a handhold, _**any **_handhold, on the sloping, crumbling second floor to escape the fiery, jagged pit that waited for him below. But try as he might, succumbing to panic, flailing about haphazardly, he couldn't find anything to arrest his fall. With less than a second left before his plummet, James closed his eyes and began to pray...

And suddenly, with a painful jolt, he stopped! Eyes wide with wonder, Patriot looked up to see that his gun had been caught above his head on a protruding shard of metal! His face broke out into a smile as he thanked God for saving him. Realizing for the first time how much he was sweating as a rivulet of the stuff ran down into his eyes, stinging annoyingly. Ignoring the sweat, Patriot began looking for a way down before the enemy found him again.

Unfortunately, it was too late. James yelped in fear as bullets began whizzing perilously close past him as he struggled to get out of the way. However, he found his eyes were drawn to the small, circular projectile that was quickly flying directly at him. The grenade was so close that by the time Patriot saw it that he could see the tiny hole that the pin had been in before it had been thrown.

"Crap buckets..." James whispered, clenching his eyes shut and grimacing.

And then the Patriot's entire world became a searing inferno of noise and flame. He had no sense of how far the explosion had sent him, but he was acutely aware of the pain shooting up his spine as he made contact with the far wall. His exhausted and smoking body fell to the ground, immediately pelted with the debris blasted away with the grenade. The pile of rubble in the corner was all that marked the fall of the hero as he lay there, smoldering.

The remaining Nazi soldiers, over two dozen of them, began tentatively walking towards the pile, guns cocked and at the ready. Quietly muttering amongst themselves in German, the nearest one inched closer, lightly tapping the debris with his toe to make sure their enemy was finally dead. The survivors were understandably terrified and cautious, seeing as how James had single handedly decimated over half their entire force. The only part of him the Nazis could still see was the lower half of his leg and foot, barely poking above the scrapped metal and wood amidst his tattered clothing.

Detecting no movement, the closest soldier kicked the pile once again, more forcefully this time. Visibly relieved, he turned around, a grin of growing confidence spreading across his face. The remaining soldiers turned to each other and began smiling and laughing, glad that the sudden, unnamed terror that had been the Patriot had been finally taken down.

"Grrraaahhh!" came a savage, gravelly voice from the middle of the rubble.

The Nazis screamed as the pile shifted and the battered, blackened figure of the Patriot erupted from the ground, raining bullets and fire across the room. The Nazis screamed, panicked, running for cover as their compatriots were gunned down, struck with near paralyzing horror at their enemy who wouldn't seem to die no matter what they did!

His pain was so great that James couldn't even see straight. He was reacting completely on instinct now, utterly pushed to his limits. He continued struggling simply because he knew that if he did not, he would die; and he was _**damned **_sure that he would pay those _**&$!%^$ **_back for every broken bone in his body.

Despite the returning fire that the soldiers were shooting back at him, Patriot began sprinting forward, barrels blazing, firing in all directions at once. He grunted in pain once, twice, as he took a bullet to his leg, and another one in his shoulder, but he was already too far gone, too overwhelmed by pain, to notice any more. His whole body was on fire, every nerve ending was in agony, and James knew he was about one minute away from a total physical collapse, but he kept on going, swearing with whatever rational thought he had left that if he was going down, he was taking the Nazis with him.

Patriot didn't have an objective, he didn't really even know what he was doing, but he found himself running through a canopy of bullets, gathering what little strength he had left, and _**leaping **_over the very pit that he'd nearly met his death in just a minute earlier. He cursed as he felt a spasm of pain from his chest, realizing that he must have broken at least one or two of his ribs, as he barely grasped a loose guard rail and hoisted himself up onto the remains of the second floor, which had become a dangerously unstable ramp.

Bullets rang and pinged off the floor while James scrambled and slipped, haltingly making his way up the ramp, not even bothering to return fire. It occurred to him that he had somehow concocted a plan, apparently subconsciously, during his rage, and finally gaining the apex of the second floor ramp, he turned around to face the two dozen or so Nazis who's bullets were still finding their marks.

Bellowing with fury and pure rage, the Patriot ran down the ramp, guns blazing, voice so loud that it echoed off the walls of the devastated warehouse. His body remembering training that he hadn't even realized had sunk in, Patriot kicked off from the ramp, sailing endlessly through the air, twisting and turning in a roaring, blazing, catapulting whirlwind of death. Bullets rang through the air, flying in every conceivable direction, ricocheting off the walls, ceiling, and floor as James' body whirled around so fast it became nothing but a bloody tan and ashen black blur.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity of spiraling through the air, the Patriot touched ground, his utterly exhausted body instantly collapsing beneath him. The barrel of his guns still smoking and reverberating with the heat of their discharges. James lay on the filthy, wreckage strewn floor, not caring about the fact that he was probably laying in a growing puddle of his own blood, breathing in great big gulps of acrid air. He gasped as the pain he felt from his body redoubled now that he was laying still, finding it almost impossible even to breathe, striving with all his might not to vomit.

After a full minute and a half of trying to collect himself, Patriot expended the effort required to hoist himself almost halfway up to take a look around. The warehouse itself now sported several enormous, gaping holes in the walls, its roof had partially collapsed, and the small second floor was virtually gone. Large portions of the building's structure was on fire and billowing smoke, and it probably wouldn't be long before the entire thing collapsed in on itself for good. As for the Nazis, not a single one was left standing. What bodies he could see lay prone on the floor, bullet holes still slightly emitting small white wisps of smoke.

James slumped down on the ground again, sighing through the pain that wracked his singed body, "_**Damn **_I'm good!" he whispered to himself, allowing a small smile to pass his lips.

Then he puked and passed out.

Captain America woke up several seconds later. He shook his head and blinked, tearing away the cobwebs that had enveloped his mind. Groaning in pain, he pulled himself up out of the concrete crater he'd been repeatedly pounded into. Ignoring his smashed bones and muscles and his torn and crimson stained uniform, he examined his shield, impressed as he noticed that although it was blackened with dust and blood, it didn't have a single scratch or chip on it.

"Stick must have been right about you. You're made of tough stuff," Steve muttered to his shield, hoisting it up onto his arm as he straightened his helmet on his head. "Now where did Shmidt get too?"

The roar of an engine arrested Captain America's attention, as a second later he caught sight of a small motor boat churning up water as it began to leave the wharf. When it started to pick up speed, Steve's eyes narrowed as he recognized Shmidt at the helm of the four-passenger craft, his face glued into the permanent death's grin of a the skull.

Completely ignoring the massive waves of pain which were washing over his body, Steve took a deep breath, aware that what he was about to do would be a long shot at best. Shmidt's boat was hurtling as fast as it could down the wharf, and would blast past the dock in a matter of seconds. With time running out, Captain America began running towards the boat, his feet pounding the wood beneath him as he accelerated faster and faster. Shmidt's eyes never left him as he reached for his gun. At the last second, Steve brought his shield to bear, deflecting the shots that came from the boat, he leaped from the dock as the ship sped by into the open ocean, sailing through the air for an agonizingly eternal moment, and then skidding to a stop on the deck just in front of Shmidt.

"Im_**press**_ive!" Shmidt exclaimed, ready with a _**devastating **_punch as soon as Captain America had steadied himself. "Seriously, I'm impressed."

Steve staggered back, taking the blow full in the face, "Shut up, Skull."

"_**Don't call me that**_!" the Skull shouted, enraged.

Cap took full advantage of the moment of weakness his comment had created, slamming his shield down with all his strength on Shmidt's head, "But you said it yourself, Shmidt, you've changed. That's what you are now."

The Skull didn't have a chance to reply as he was struck with punch after punch, stumbling backwards, dangerously close to the front of the boat. The ship itself shuddered with the impact of the punches being dealt, which combined with the motion of the waves and the pitch darkness of the surrounding night, made the entire situation exceedingly unstable. With one false move or bad step, both Captain America and the Skull were likely to fall overboard into the churning waters of the North Atlantic, and loaded down with weapons and ammunition as they were, they were in danger of drowning within a matter of minutes.

But it was these volatile conditions that worked in Shmidt's favor when Steve's footing fumbled as the boat crested a particularly high wave. Despite being dazed and bruised from Captain America's attacks, the Skull reached around and tore off a huge chunk of wood from the bow of the ship, bringing it down on Steve in a tremendous rain of splintered wood and metal.

Momentarily stunned, Steve was caught off guard as the crimson Skull caught him in a full body tackle, throwing them both to the back end of the boat and sending it careening off course. Unable to gain any advantage, Captain America was helpless to stop Shmidt from pinning him down as he began slowly forcing his head off the back of the craft.

The Skull cackled triumphantly as Captain America's head was nearly forced down into the water, dangerously close to the whirring razor blades of the motor. Watery foam spurted up from the drink, causing Steve to sputter as he used all his remaining strength to strain against the Skull's overwhelming force.

But Captain America never gave up fighting, even knowing that only a few small inches separated him from death at the hands of Johann Shmidt. He refused to admit defeat, even as the tiny boat continued to wildly leap from wave to wave, now miles away from land. His only backup had passed out in the middle of an abandoned warehouse, having long faded from sight in the inky blackness of the night. The only thing he could hear now was the noise of the motor running just out of reach of his ears, drowning out all other sounds except the voice of his tormentor, ringing above the fray.

"You know (unh) we're a lot alike, Rogers," the Skull said, trying hard to match Cap's waning strength with his own. "We're really (stop squirming) two of a kind."

"How's..._**that**_?" Steve managed to grunt out.

"Well, we're both patriots, in our own ways, to our own countries," Shmidt continued. "We're both _**fiercely **_loyal to our ideals. We both have sacrificed (hold still) our lives for the war...we're just two sides of the same coin."

"I'm _**nothing **_like _**you**_!" protested Captain America, still trying hard to keep his head above water.

"_**Damn **_but you're strong," complained Shmidt, redoubling his efforts. "Think about it, Rogers. You 'sacrificed' for your country, and you got bigger, stronger, faster, better looking, and are probably going to be praised as a hero to your nation. I, however, was the one who had to make the _**real **_sacrifice. _**I'm **_an ugly, disfigured _**freak**_! I'm never going to be able to show my face in the light of day again! My own people are going to brand me a monster now! We're both the personified icons of our cultures, _**but**_, because I sacrificed more and gave more, I'm stronger and faster than you!"

The Skull bent down until he was looking Steve right in the eye, "Face it, Rogers. You'd be me if your life had gone south, and I'd be you if things had worked out better."

"Maybe you're right," Steve conceded, grimacing in pain. "But I've got one thing that you don't have."

Shmidt sneered, "What's that?"

"The right hook of friggin' _**justice**_!" shouted Captain America, reaching up with a _**ground shattering **_punch, hitting the Skull with the full impact of his bone crunching star spangled shield.

"Ooooff!" the Skull doubled over, holding himself as all he could do was sit on the deck, paralyzed, with the wind completely knocked out of him and his mind reeling.

Captain America stood to his full height, moonlight sparkling off his shield, "You talk too damn much."

While Shmidt had been ranting, Steve had remembered his superior military training and had begun using his feet, which had been free, to get himself some proper leverage. Then, utilizing his newfound foothold, he had built up his strength, supercharging his punch because he knew he'd only have one chance at freeing himself, and forced to gamble his fate on the outcome of a single moment, had punched the Skull with everything he had.

Raining blow upon blow on his enemy, Steve shouted, "We may both represent the values of our nations, but we're not the same!" he shouted, not letting up this time for even an instant. "America will _**never **_concede victory to you, and _**neither will I**_!"

"..._**Kill**_...you..." Shmidt managed to cough, down on his hands and knees on the deck.

Looking down on the pathetic form of his beaten enemy, Steve said, "I spent the last day doing nothing but thinking about killing you for what you've done, for taking Abraham Erskine away from me," he said, hatefully. "But I'm not gonna do that. That's not what I represent, and that's not the choice I'm going to make. I'm Captain America now, I embody something that's bigger than me, something better than myself...and it's something that's saved me. Maybe you deserve death, but that's not my call to make. I'm going to bring you to justice, and I'm going to take that serum back if it kills me."

Bloody, beaten, his red white and blue uniform hanging from him in rags, Captain America picked the Skull up by his neck and delivered a _**massive **_head-butt with such force that he could hear bones cracking. Dazed, he stepped back for a second as the Skull fell to the deck, bleeding heavily from half a dozen serious wounds. Then, with a wild, animalistic shout of blind rage and fury, the Skull launched himself at Cap one more time, veins bulging with madness.

Resolute and stalwart, Captain America, frowning deeply, reached back and _**slammed **_the Skull back down to the deck, splintering it into countless shards. This final blow was ultimately more than the little boat could take as Shmidt's beaten body smashed completely through the craft and into the water, suddenly splitting the tiny ship in half.

Steve shouted in surprise and alarm as he fell into the drink. Thrown about by the icy waters and the waves, he instantly lost all track of direction in the darkness. Weighed down by his gear and utterly exhausted, he desperately flailed about, knowing that in his weakened state he didn't stand a chance alone out in the vastness of the ocean. Finally he grabbed onto a large plank of wood, which seemed to keep him at least somewhat adrift.

Affording himself a moment to catch his breath, Captain America looked around for the Skull, but in the dead of night he could barely see his own hands, and his enemy had left no trace of himself. As numbness enveloped his body, Steve's eyes began to dim. His last thought as unconsciousness enveloped him was of James, wishing that he could have seen his friend one last time.


	10. Chapter 10

The Age of Marvels: Chapter Ten

Captain America

and the

Invaders

Part Ten

_**During the darkest days of World War II, America stood united against the threat of the Nazi Germany war machine. Our Greatest Generation sacrificed everything in order to stem the forces of oppression from overrunning our very planet, led under the fearless banner of the greatest warrior of our time, Captain America. Inspired by his courageous example, and with the aid of his misfit band of Invaders, Captain America led the forces of freedom to victory, changing his world forever.**_

__October 2000

New Jersey

The home of Mr. Barnes

As Mr. Barnes and Colonel Fury began to finish their meal the sun had started to set outside. The shadows of the living room began to lengthen as the shining orange rays of sunlight streaked through the branches of the trees outside the window and penetrated through to the wooden walls behind the pair. Small specks of dust and hair could be seen lazily floating through the air and the only sound that greeted their ears was the slow, steady ticking of the clock in the corner. It almost seemed as if the rest of the world was giving them their space, finding themselves in a secluded section of life filled to the brim with the slightly awkward but ultimately pleasant atmosphere the two friends now shared. It appeared that the story Mr. Barnes was telling the Colonel had brought them closer together somehow. The old man was sharing a part of himself by telling it, and Fury was opening himself up by listening. It was a strangely intimate moment, punctuated only by the elder man coughing after taking a last sip of his tea.

"Stick's men easily found me in the warehouse after the fight," Mr. Barnes started again, conversationally. "After they rescued me, they burned the entire place to the ground, destroying all the evidence."

"What about Captain America?" Colonel Fury asked, concerned.

"They soon discovered him adrift on a small plank of plywood among the wreckage of the little boat," Barnes patiently explained. "Shmidt was nowhere to be found. However, we later discovered that he'd been picked up by an experimental U-boat that had managed to slip past our blockade. That's why he'd taken the motorboat out in the first place, it had been his plan to meet up with the submarine all along."

The Colonel looked downcast, "So he got away with the serum, then?"

Mr. Barnes gaze fell as he nodded, "The mission was a failure...but not a _complete___failure. We hadn't captured the Skull or the serum, but we _did___succeed in destroying a covert Nazi base concealed on American soil and confiscating their top secret files and plans, as well as temporarily defeating Shmidt in the process."

"Those plans must have been pretty important."

"They were definitely what saved us," Mr. Barnes agreed, brightening up somewhat. "Somehow the disk we'd copied managed to survive the firefight and the boys in intelligence started studying it as soon as they got us back to the infirmary. Unfortunately, Steve and I weren't allowed _out___of the infirmary until a week later...just in time for the funeral of Dr. Erskine and all the other people who were killed in the Project Rebirth disaster."

April, 1944

Mitchell Air Force Base, Long Island

It was the first day they had been outside the infirmary in a week, and they were spending it at a funeral. Mitchell Air Force Base was crowded with the friends, family, and loved ones of the hundreds of people who had died over a week ago at Project Rebirth. A stage had been erected on the steps of the main administration building, and Steve Rogers and James Barnes were sitting in the front row before it, both decked out in their full new uniforms, which had been painstakingly repaired since their first mission.

James had to admit that he felt a little silly wearing his uniform in front of everyone in public like that, although he knew he should be proud to do so. As a matter of fact, he _was___proud, proud to be standing next to Steve, both of them now soldiers in service to their country. He knew that his one-of-a-kind uniform was a mark of his status and skill, and what's more, he felt like since the mission, he had _earned___it.

James still had difficulty believing what he had accomplished that night. He'd single-handedly destroyed an entire military base. This was no small feat. And Steve had gone up against the Skull, a person with a power that was simply _astonishing_. James had only witnessed a small portion of their struggle, but the things that Steve was capable of as Captain America thanks to the serum were amazing. Who knows, maybe together they _would___be capable of turning this war around.

Sitting next to his friend, his shield strapped on his back from his shoulders, Steve Rogers sat erect, proud, and profoundly sad. His face bore a grim expression, and his mind was miles away from everything around him. He was keenly aware that while wearing his star-spangled uniform, he was the living embodiment of not only Dr. Erskine's legacy, but as far as everyone at the funeral was concerned, the symbol of hope for their entire country. Despite Stick's best efforts to keep their mission confidential, the secret had gotten out, as he predicted it would. Rumors of Captain America and the Patriot's escapade had spread like wildfire until it had even gotten news coverage, and it seemed like they had become the symbols of freedom that Erskine had always intended them to be. Ironically enough, the news that their origins had been born from the tragedy of the doctor's death worked overwhelmingly in their favor. The fact that Steve had abilities that set him apart from the rest of humanity was lost amongst the overwhelming wave of hero worship and praise that he was met with.

But now was not the time for all that. This was a time for mourning and respecting the dead. Steve's wandering mind was yanked back to the world around him as he realized that it was almost his time to speak. He wasn't nervous about it, but he was reluctant nonetheless. He had realized during his time in the infirmary that, to his shame, the first time that he'd donned the uniform of Captain America, he had done so out of hatred and revenge, not the principals of liberty and freedom that Erskine had bestowed the honor upon him to uphold. His first actions as Captain America had been made for entirely the wrong reasons, and for Steve, action was defined by the reasons behind them, just as much or more so than the results. His shame was just as palpable as the pain he felt from the loss of his mentor.

Unfortunately, the funeral was not the time to lose himself to his feelings of regret, not in front of all those guests. These were people that were dealing with great personal loss and tragedy. They needed someone to be strong for them, someone they could believe in, someone who would honor the loved ones who had been stolen from them. To them, Captain America was that person.

And as Steve Rogers stood up to take the stage, he knew all this. So as he stood behind the podium and spoke into the microphone he swallowed his shame and his guilt, stood to his full height, took a deep breath, and spoke bravely and boldly, with a conviction and a strength that the assembled mourners had never heard, but had regardless been yearning for during those troubled times.

He spoke of the unimaginable horror that had been unwillingly and unexpectedly visited upon their lives. He spoke of the countless men and women who had woken up that morning believing in the promise of a new day, and had sacrificed themselves not just for Project Rebirth and Captain America, but for their nation, and for the good of the world. He told of the terrible evil that was the Skull, and of the immense power that he wielded, and of the considerable hurtles and battles that still had to be waged during the course of the war.

But then, Steve reminded the crowd that the people who died weren't really gone, but continued to live on in their hearts, as long as they were remembered, and they continued to live lives that honored the memories of the deceased. Captain America assured them that he would do everything in his power to make sure that they had not died in vain. He would do everything in his power to make sure that _his___lost loved ones were proud of him, to make sure that he earned the trust and respect of his country. And that he would make sure that the deaths of every single victim of Project Rebirth were _avenged___on the field of battle.

Steve's speech was met with _thunderous___applause. People cheered, cried, and stood up in respect for their hero. Officers took their hats off, and even cynical old Sergeant Phillips, the officer in charge of the base, was forced to blink back a few tears.

The rest of the funeral was something of a blur to Steve, as his usually focused mind felt compelled to wander uncharacteristically from place to place. He remembered the funeral ending, and the people shaking his hand as they began to file out. Pretty soon there were very few people left, and eventually even James had to go, despite the worried glances and questions he kept throwing Steve's way.

Over an hour and a half after the end of the funeral, as twilight was descending upon the base, Steve found himself, still in full uniform and having aimlessly meandered to the graveyard, staring down at the headstone of Dr. Abraham Erskine, now laid to rest in the ground that he'd spent his entire life fighting to protect in his own unique way.

"Just a moment, kid. Lemme talk to you."

"Oh, hi there, Stick, sir," James replied, slowing so that the older man could catch up to him on his cane.

"Looks like you got something on yer mind," Stick said as they walked through the base.

"I'm just worried about Steve," James quietly admitted.

"He just needs some space for now. I think we all do."

Confused, James asked, "So if everyone needs space, what are you doin' talking to me?"

"Oh, I'm here on _business_, kid. What, you think I'd be here wasting my time with you just for funsies? Since Project Rebirth went belly up I'm the only one runnin' the show. I'm so busy my _head's___spinning! I mean, it's not like that pain-in-th'-butt Sergeant Phillips is gonna help or nothing."

"Please sir, flattery will get you nowhere," James muttered, sarcastically.

"What was that, kid?"

"Nothing sir."

Ignoring James, Stick continued, "Anyway, Steve's got a lot to think about, but this is sensitive information that you two need to know before tomorrow, so I thought I'd tell you first."

"What's tomorrow, sir?"

"Follow me," Stick said, pushing open the doors to one of the main buildings. "Remember that disk that you two picked up during your mission? It contained top secret data that had to do with three main subjects, Project Rebirth, Operation Overlord, and something called Operation Trump Card."

James followed Stick into his office as the elder man locked the door behind them, "Unfortunately, thanks to Shmidt, the Nazis have all the knowledge they need concerning Project Rebirth, it's the other two that we're concerned about."

Stick turned to face James, looking him eye to eye, "Listen carefully kid, because what you're about to hear could change the world."

"Sh-shouldn't Steve be here for this?" James asked, tentatively.

Stick waved away his comment, "Ah, you can tell 'em later. Now, Operation Overlord concerns plans for what we're calling D-Day, which is the day when we will be launching, with cooperation with allied governments, the most massive invasion force in history on the beaches of Normandy, France in a desperate, secret, last ditch effort to attack and ultimately defeat Nazi Germany."

Stick's voice grew solemn, "If this invasion fails, there is nothing we can do to keep the Nazis from conquering Europe."

James was stunned into silence, "Did...did you just say it's a _secret_?"

"Well it _was _a secret!" burst Stick, waving his hands in the air, exasperated. "Until Shmidt got his dirty hands on the plans! Now we're _screwed_!"

"I thought you said it was the most massive invasion force in history," James said. "How are we screwed?"

Stick sighed, closing his eyes as if he had a headache, "The Nazis have the coastline sealed up _tight_. Now that they know how and when we're coming, no matter how many men we throw at them, it won't matter. It won't be a battle, it'll be a _slaughter_."

The small office was silent for a minute as both the men quietly stared at the floor. The situation was indeed grim. James had never felt so helpless before. Despite how far he'd come and all the training he'd received, he _still___hadn't managed to fix anything. In fact, so far it felt like all he'd done is mess things up more. What were they going to do now?

"I'm sorry," James mumbled, sadly. "I'm sorry we failed you during the mission, sir."

Stick turned suddenly jovial, smiling down at his friend, "No worries, kid. I'm _proud___of you. You two did exceptionally well, so well in fact, that I was even able to salvage this situation...I think."

James peered at Stick questioningly, "What do you mean?"

Stick continued, laughing, "As far as the government of the United States is concerned, I disobeyed direct orders from the President, kidnapped and coerced the two most top-secret weapons we have into technically going AWOL, and potentially compromised the last chance we had of _winning___this war, all on a mission everyone _thought _you'd gone on for the sake of revenge. Now, while you two _technically _failed, you _did _succeed in coming back alive, and with crucial data that if we _hadn't _had, hundreds of thousands of lives would be lost and the world as we know it would cease to be, as it would be utterly consumed by the Germans."

"...I'm still confused," James admitted.

Stick sighed, "You're not a sharp one, are you kid?"

"Sorry sir."

"Once you came back from your mission, all three of us would have been looking at a dishonorable discharge _at best_...and at worse could have been executed..."

"_Executed_? You never told us that!" exclaimed James, shocked.

"But, thanks to the information you gathered, and my _brilliant___leadership and planning skills, I have once again saved the day."

James' eyes once again narrowed, "_What___planning skills?"

Stick was growing more excited, "Okay finally, this is the point. Thanks to _you_, we have discovered that the Nazis know all about D-Day, which _should___have scrapped our last chance of victory in this war, but because of my new plan, which the President wisely accepted, we still have a shot."

Stick sat down in front of James, almost whispering in his excitement, "Now that they know we're coming, Hitler will doubtlessly be throwing re-enforcements at the beach. Shmidt may even have some kind of plan involving the serum for Normandy. This will be the most important day of the war, and you and Steve won't be enough to turn the tide of that battle. That's why Dr. Erskine originally planned to create _dozens _of super soldiers, for situations just like these."

"So what do we do?" James asked, shrugging.

"You and Steve are going to create a team of super humans. In just under two months, on June 6th, your new team will storm the beaches of Normandy along with the largest invasion fleet known to mankind, making it possible for us to _finally _turn the tables of this war!"

James was speechless. Was this guy crazy? Where were they going to find an entire _team _of super humans? As far as James was concerned, there hadn't even been _any___super humans until a week ago! How could something as important as _the fate of the world___be thrust upon Steve, James, and a hypothetical team of mythical people that didn't even exist?

Of course, the only thing James managed to stutter was, "What...what...what...?"

"Calm down kid, just calm down," Stick replied, soothingly. "This is what Project Rebirth _did_. We kept tabs on all known super humans on the _planet_, and used what we discovered about them for our research. They're remote, largely unknown, and most are _quite___well hidden, but they're out there, and their numbers would _astound___you."

"Wh...why doesn't anybody _know___about these people?" James asked, dumbstruck.

"Oh, this information is _ridiculously _top secret," Stick admitted. "I shouldn't even have told _you _yet, but as you know, I tend to bend the rules a bit every once in a while."

"Yeah, if by every once in a while, you mean almost on a daily basis," James mumbled under his breath.

"Anyway, we've already made contact with the first two members of the new team, and they'll be arriving here bright and early tomorrow morning. It'll be your team's responsibility to save the world...so maybe you should get some sleep," Stick added as an afterthought.

James nodded, "Yeah, _maybe_," he snapped back, venomously.

Stick patted him on the back as he rose to leave, "I'll give you that space now. Oh, and don't forget to tell Steve about this next time you see him. He'll need to be in top shape if he's going to _lead___the team."

James was so overwhelmed that he swore his eyes were crossing.

James had meant to leave Stick's office to go talk to Steve, but he was so distressed that he wound up just wandering around the base aimlessly. So much had happened so quickly that he wasn't sure he could deal with it all. The world was a different place now, and he didn't know where he fit into it. After all, it was only a few months ago that he had followed Steve into that recruitment center and all this madness had started.

In the last two weeks James had watched Steve recieve what could only be described as super powers, he'd survived a _devastating___explosion, he'd been shot, wiped out an entire base all by himself, and been hospitalized twice. He'd been through more action in the last two weeks than _most___people experienced in a lifetime. And now he was going to be part of an elite _super___team with the fate of the human race in his hands? What the frig? Six months ago the biggest thing he had to worry about was whether he'd have a date for Friday night or not!

"It's okay James, it's okay. Just settle down..." he said to himself, trying to take deep breaths and calm down. "Oh..."

Without realizing it, James had accidentally wandered into one of the many hangars peppered around the encampment. Living on an Air Force base, aircraft hangars were a common sight, but some of them, like this one, were restricted areas, and for good reason. Looking around the hangar, James noticed that file cabinets and scientific equipment were scattered everywhere, with dozens of scientists in white lab coats bustling busily around the large room. It would have reminded him of Project Rebirth, except that when his attention was drawn upwards, he noticed a large bomber plane strapped to the ceiling with wires. Now what could that be for?

Suddenly one of the scientists caught sight of him, "Ah, our test subject has arrived, colleagues!"

The other scientists all perked up at this, "Good, now we can get started!"

"Attach the cables!"

"Double check the bombing hangar doors!"

"All systems are go!"

"Uh...wait..." James started to say, shaking his head vehemently.

The head scientist approached him, placing his hand on his shoulder and guiding him to the center of the hangar, "I can't believe my eyes, it's the Patriot! What an honor to meet you, sir! I didn't realize Sergeant Phillips had placed such a high priority on our research! I mean, I told him we needed a well trained test dummy for the trial run but this is too much!"

"No...you don't understand...this isn't...I'm not a _dummy_!" James stammered, growing more and more panicked as he nevertheless stood in the center of the hangar while all the other scientists quickly backed away.

"Colleagues, make sure that you have all your protective goggles, gloves, boots, and other clothing on!" the head scientist announced, securing his own protective eyewear. "Prepare the bomber launch doors!"

"Doors prepared!"

"Are you ready, Patriot?"

"_No_! I'm not supposed to _be___here! This is a _mistake_!" screamed James, his voice rising to embarrassingly high levels.

The head scientist ignored him, "Is the switch active?"

"Active, sir!"

James began to tremble in fear.

"Throw...the _switch_!" exclaimed the scientist, laughing maniacally.

An obnoxiously loud beeping noise filled the hangar as the bomber launch doors swung open. James flinched involuntarily as what looked like a large black cloud began to pour forth from the aircraft, quickly expanding and filling the air of the hangar. High pitched squeaking noises began to issue forth from the cloud thing while James cocked his head to the side questioningly.

Paralyzed with terror and confusion, James stood rooted to the spot as the black, squeaking, flitting mass began to descend upon him. The entire hangar turned black as they expanded, flying to all corners of the building. James' eyes widened as he saw that the cloud was actually made up of millions of tiny animals, which was where the squeaking noises were coming from. He watched as one of the animals landed on his arm, a tiny clock attached to its back.

"It's...a bat..." James said as several more of the winged animals landed on him.

He noticed that the small clocks attached to the bats seemed to be slowly counting down. Not being overly afraid of the bats, and overcome with curiosity, he watched as the first timer hit zero...and the device on the counter ignited.

_Bam_! The bat on James' arm exploded, searing his skin and causing him to flinch in pain. An instant later, a bat on his leg exploded, followed by explosions on his arms and head. James began to hop around fearfully in a futile effort to escape the minuscule explosions all around him. Pretty soon the air was full of exploding bats, popping everywhere in tiny displays of grossness.

Needless to say, James was freaking out, "_Aaaahhh! Exploding bats! Exploding bats everywhere!_" he shouted, screaming like a little girl as he ran in a panic around the hangar, flailing his arms everywhere while he tried to fend off the flying incendiaries.

In the far corner of the hanger, standing safely inside their protective gear, the head scientist turned to his assistant, "So colleague, do you think it's a success?"

"_EEEEEEEKKK!_" James squealed as he ran past, a cloud of rampaging bomb-bats hot on his heels.

"Success!" exclaimed the assistant, giving his boss a big thumbs up.

More than an hour later, James Barnes staggered into the graveyard just outside the base, his uniform hanging from him in tatters, covered in burns, scratches, bruises, and scorch marks. Dragging himself pathetically through the grass, he collapsed in a heap beside his friend, Steve Rogers, who was still staring at the grave of Dr. Erskine. As James lay on the ground, heaving in great big gulps of air, Steve barely acknowledged his presence, keeping his silent vigil amidst the oncoming twilight.

"What happened to you?" Steve eventually asked, not taking his eyes off Erskine's headstone.

"Bats...with _bombs_!" gasped James, looking up at his friend with terror in his eyes. "It was _horrible_, Steve! They were _everywhere_!"

"Bats with bombs, huh? Have you been hitting the sauce again, buddy?"

"I'm telling you, it was _awful_! Never again Steve, never again! I _hate___bats!" James shrieked, desperately pulling on Steve's leg.

"Well, I don't see any bats now," Steve replied, trying to ignore his friend. "You come here for a reason?"

James was still trying to catch his breath, "Stick said...new team...super humans..._big___invasion...be here tomorrow...save the world..."

"Yeah, I know. Stick already came here and told me."

"_What_?" James asked, incredulous. "You mean I...dragged myself...all the way out here...for _nothing_?"

"Looks like it."

James grunted as he once again collapsed at his friend's feet, totally exhausted. Steve sighed and rolled his eyes, sitting down next to him and crossing his legs Indian style with his triangular shield still on his back. For a minute neither one of them said anything, James because he _couldn't_, and Steve because he didn't want too. This was the first time the two best friends had been alone together without being in the middle of a disaster or a hospital for over a week, and Steve enjoyed the silence. However, it couldn't last. Steve had too much on his mind.

"This man changed my life," he said, nodding towards Dr. Erskine's grave. "He was the most puzzling, crazy, _amazing___man I ever met. He changed my life and he changed the world. He made me more than I ever thought I could be, more than I ever dared to dream...and now he's gone, and I'm left here with all of this _power_...and _so much___responsibility."

"Uugh...yeah..." moaned James as sympathetically as he could in his current toasted state.

"That's hard enough to deal with, but then I think that so far, everything I've done as Captain America has been for all the wrong reasons. I'm supposed to _stand___for something, James, but until now all I've been doing has been enforcing the values of everything that Dr. Erskine _didn't___believe in," Steve continued, downcast. "...I've _betrayed___him."

James managed to weakly shake his head, "Nuh-_uh_," he protested, eloquently.

"You know what I've been thinking all day?" Steve asked James, lost in thought. "I can't help but remember this one time when Dr. Erskine and I were talking in the training module. It was late at night after everyone else had gone to bed, and he told me a story about how he was involved in the Atlantis Crisis. I learned more about that man in one night than I ever had before. I felt like, for the first time ever, that I had someone watching over me, you know? Like...like my dad never did..."

"...Uh-huh..." James nodded, lending his friend a barely conscious ear.

Steve's hand clenched into a fist, "You're right, James. I've always got you, don't I? And we can still remember Dr. Erskine, and honor his memory with our actions. Besides, we managed to do some good, right? We avenged his death by taking out that Nazi base, and now we're going to help put a stop to them for good. If I'm going to carry the shield of Captain America, I've got to start _acting___like Captain America! Dr. Erskine envisioned me to be the embodiment of the American dream, the dream that I've spent my whole life searching for, and helping others to find. All Dr. Erskine did was to bring out and show the world what I already had inside. He just gave me the tools to do what my heart had always yearned for!"

With his last bit of energy, James managed a feeble smile of acknowledgment.

"Thanks James, you're the best," Steve said, smiling back, completely unaware of the state his friend was in. "You've always been so good to talk too."

Steve paused for a moment, not able to look James in the eye, "And...I apologize for earlier. I was in a bad state of mind, and I treated you like crap during the mission. I'm sorry."

"...uh..." James commented, attempting to speak while at the same time trying not to drool on the grass.

"I knew you'd understand," Steve said, smiling for the first time in a long time as he hoisted James up over his shoulder. "Now lets get you back to the infirmary. I have a feeling the doctor's gonna want to take a look at you."

"Uugh," James disapprovingly moaned.

As Steve carried his friend through the moonlit night and made his way to the infirmary, he couldn't help but look up at the stars, "Oh look, a bat!"

"_EEEEEKKKK_!"


	11. Chapter 11

The Age of Marvels: Chapter Eleven

Captain America

and the

Invaders

Part Eleven

_**During the darkest days of World War II, America stood united against the threat of the Nazi Germany war machine. Our Greatest Generation sacrificed everything in order to stem the forces of oppression from overrunning our very planet, led under the fearless banner of the greatest warrior of our time, Captain America. Inspired by his courageous example, and with the aid of his misfit band of Invaders, Captain America led the forces of freedom to victory, changing his world forever.**_

New Jersey

The home of Mr. Barnes

The old man stared out the window at the rapidly darkening sky outside, once again lost in his thoughts, "We didn't know it, but that next day was going to be one of the most important days of our lives."

"How so?" asked Colonel Fury, leaning forward in his chair.

A smile creased Mr. Barnes' face, "That was the day that we were going to meet the rest of our team. The last, best hope for the war."

Fury almost breathed a sigh of relief, "That must have been reassuring, meeting the rest of the Invaders. You guys were legendary. There wasn't a force on Earth that could stop you."

Mr. Barnes couldn't help but laugh at that, "Hah! Maybe to everyone else that's what it looked like, but it couldn't have been farther from the truth. We were the most ragtag bunch of super powered nutcases in history! I couldn't help but think that we were all doomed from the moment we first met!"

For the first time since the story began, Colonel Fury found himself struck speechless.

Still grinning, Mr. Barnes continued, "It was that day that we found out what our biggest obstacle was _really_going to be..._teamwork_."

April, 1944

Mitchell Air Force Base, Long Island

0900 hours saw Steve Rogers and James Barnes standing outside the administration building that morning, in full uniform, waiting with not a little trepidation to be escorted to their next mission briefing and the new members of their team that waited for them. Steve stood there, silent, stoic, and thoughtful as usual. James, however, was beginning to grow fidgety.

"What are they waiting for?" he asked, checking his watch once again. "I can't be expected to deal with this kind of stress. The anticipation is killing me."

Steve couldn't help but smile, "You're one of the most highly trained soldiers in the world, educated by some of the most experienced warriors who ever lived. I think you can manage to wait five minutes for our escort."

"Yeah, but in the last few weeks I've been shot at and blown up several times...and last night I was attacked by exploding bats," James sulked. "I'm all tapped out."

"Well I hope you're not ready to throw in the towel just yet," came a gruff voice from the entrance to the building. "Because we're ready for your briefing now."

"Good morning, Sergeant Phillips," Steve said, giving a brief salute.

"Good morning, Sergeant Phillips," James repeated in a whiny voice and mocking face. "Kiss more butt, Scab."

"Morning Rogers," Phillips said, ignoring James. "Follow me, boys. We've got a lot to talk about."

As they entered the building and proceeded up the stairs at a brisk pace, Steve couldn't resist questioning the Sergeant, "Sir, can you give us any idea regarding who we're about to meet?"

"I'll introduce you all as soon as we begin," informed Phillips, not bothering to turn and address his underlings face to face as he walked. "Fair warning though, of the two of them, I would advise caution dealing with the taller one."

James snorted, "Really sir? This is _Captain America_we're talking about here. Steve's the only living super soldier in the _world_. I think we'll be fine."

"God save us," Sergeant Phillips muttered under his breath sarcastically as they left the staircase and approached the first door. "Just remember to be on your best behavior. Think you can do that, _Barnes_?"

"I don't know, sir. I skipped the protocol and etiquette class at school, so you might just have to leave me in the kid's corner."

"God help me, I wish I could," the Sergeant sneered as he opened the door; then with a louder voice he announced, "Gentlemen, let's get this meeting underway. But before we begin, I'd like to introduce you all to each other."

Leading Steve and James into the room, which was mostly just furnished with a long wooden table in the middle with chairs all around in which sat a small handful of high ranking officers, they were escorted to the two individuals who definitely stood out from the crowd.

Sergeant Phillips extended his hand to the first to the two newcomers, "This is codename: Ronin. He wouldn't divulge his real name, so we just call him Logan. He is apparently originally from Canada, but lived in Japan for many, many years. Most recently he was forced to move to America after he was banished for expressing his dislike of the Japanese regime change when the Emperor took the throne."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," said Steve, extending a hand to shake Logan's.

"Likewise," James agreed.

"Hajimemashite. It is an honor to meet you, as well," Logan replied, bowing deeply and then shaking their hands. "I have heard many great things about you both."

Steve couldn't help but admire Logan's polite demeanor, although he was admittedly curious about him as a person. Disregarding the fact that he obviously had a very colorful past, he had a unique look about him as well.

The first thing that one would notice about Logan was the hair. He was a very hairy man. He had a thick head of hair which appeared to be somewhat stubborn and wild, but which had been smoothed under control with a liberal amount of gel. It seemed to want to stand up in something of a 'v' formation, not unlike a hooded owl. It gave him a unique, vaguely animalistic appearance.

This look was drastically offset by the well-tailored, immaculate robes that Logan wore. The robes had long sleeves and covered him completely from the neck down. They were of a deep, dark blue shade with beautiful gold trim and some kind of Japanese symbol (Steve could only guess that it was a family crest) on his chest, also in gold.

Hanging on his back by a rope slung over his shoulder and across his chest was a long, thin sword. While he couldn't see the blade since it wasn't drawn, the sheath was beautifully crafted in matching blue and gold ornate decorations. It was clear that whatever lifestyle Logan had lived in Japan, he had done very well for himself.

Finally, it was obvious to all that he was very short, at least a full foot shorter than Steve. But while his robes succeeded in hiding his physique, it was clear by the way he carried himself that he was very well built and not one to trifle with. Steve didn't learn until later that Logan's robes were known as a kimono, and that the sword was referred to as a katana.

Sergeant Phillips continued his introduction, "Logan here is famous all over Japan for his legendary samurai swordsmanship skills. They say he is one of the most skilled and accomplished warriors who has ever lived."

Despite showing no outward signs of embarrassment, Logan once again bowed, "You flatter me, sempai."

"He has also been blessed with an ability unique to him that we call a 'healing factor'," the Sergeant continued. "In layman's terms, this ability allows him to almost instantly heal from any wound, making him virtually a one man army."

After hearing that, Steve and James were forced to take another glance at the samurai, but this time it was tempered with much more respect...and just a touch of fear.

"And now let me introduce you to your other teammate, King Namor of the underwater nation of Atlantis," Phillips said, reluctantly indicating the next guest.

Steve's draw dropped as he stuttered out his greeting, "Um...it's uh, nice to meet you, sir?"

James couldn't even manage that much, "Did you say..._Atlantis_?"

Immediately displaying a belligerent and arrogant attitude, King Namor crossed his arms and rolled his eyes, "_Bah_! Why should I suffer even listening to these two simpletons? They clearly are ignorant of my very _kingdom_, much less myself! Is this really the best that your country has to offer?" he asked the sergeant.

"Um...yes," Sergeant Phillips answered, clearly reigning in his anger. "These are the two we told you about, Captain America and the Patriot."

"As I said, King Namor, codenamed the Sub-Mariner," Phillips continued, turning towards Steve and James, "Has ruled Atlantis for years. His abilities include enhanced strength and invulnerability, flight, breathing underwater, and commanding the tides and all manner of marine wildlife. He also has the might of the Atlantean army at his disposal, although he refuses to commit them to this conflict."

Namor disdainfully rolled his eyes once again, "Pfft, why should I sacrifice my men to a war that barely involves us? I alone should _more_than suffice in this situation, and you should be _honored_to _have_me."

"Wait..._you_were the one that attacked New York a few years ago, weren't you?" James blurted out, still staring wide eyed and pointing at the King. "With the Human Torch and all that! You flooded my apartment, you jerk!"

Steve gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, vehemently wishing that James hadn't spoken up. Despite the fact that he'd actually been thinking the same thing, amazed that the United States military had called in one of their most notorious enemies to fight at such a crucial juncture, he had the common sense not to give voice to these thoughts until he was more aware of the situation.

Unfortunately, James' accusation clearly didn't sit well with the ill-tempered King, "I was told that the issues regarding this incident had been addressed and would not be referred too again without my _express_permission!" roared Namor. "I only agreed to attend this _asinine_meeting because I was told that it was essential to opposing the Nazi threat. I simply don't understand why you can't just _point_me to the Germans so that I could easily fly there and take care of the problem once and for all _myself_!"

Sergeant Phillips gave a dejected sigh, "We've already been over this, your highness. Not only would your actions have political ramifications that would be felt around the world, but just think back to your previous experiences with the Germans. Not even you can just hurl yourself at the entire combined might of the Axis powers and expect an easy victory. They would tear you to shreds. What we need is a strategy and teamwork, and for that your cooperation is essential."

This seemed to calm Namor down, "You make a good point, airbreathing minion. While I disagree with their methods, the raw power of these Nazis commands even _my_ respect. Let us sit and discuss our options."

The entire room breathed a collective sigh of relief, "Thank you sir," Phillips said as they all took a seat.

As they made themselves comfortable, Steve took the opportunity to observe Namor. He was a tall, well built, muscular man with handsome, chiseled features. Steve thought he had heard somewhere that all Atlanteans were blue, but Namor seemed completely indistinguishable from any normal human being. He had an extremely proud, regal air about him, and slicked back jet black hair on his head. As well as a face that seemed predisposed to naturally scowling.

His clothes were even more unique than Logan's were. He wore a tight black outfit that looked almost like it was made of leather. This included tight pants (no shoes) and a gold belt with some kind of Atlantean insignia on it that matched his golden wristbands, and a black shirt with an extremely long v-neck that reached all the way down to his stomach. Steve supposed that the tight outfit made it much easier to swim in, not unlike a bathing suit.

As Steve's attention was drawn to the fact that Namor wasn't wearing shoes, which made sense when considering that Atlanteans probably swam everywhere, he noticed the most extraordinary feature in the King's arsenal. He had tiny white wings growing out of his ankles!

Steve took no notice of the fact that he was plainly staring at Namor's feet, so amazing was the fact that he had never seen a man with wings before...even ones that had grown out of his feet. The little silver wings seemed to lazily flap up and down slightly, even at rest. And when Namor became more animated, they would twitch in an irritated manner, reflecting his mood.

"Your vaunted Captain is staring at me, Sergeant," snapped the King, his voice dripping with revulsion.

"Keep your head in the game, Rogers," Sergeant Phillips barked, already annoyed to the breaking point with his watery guest.

"Sorry sir," Steve said, jerking to attention. "Continue please."

"Just so that we're all on the same page, this is where we stand," Phillips began. "Unless something drastic is done fast, the Germans will win this war. This is common knowledge. What all of you gathered here today may _not_know is that, to this effect, America had taken it upon itself to create its own squad of super soldiers in order to turn this war around. Unfortunately, upon creation of our very _first_super soldier, Mr. Steve Rogers here, we were betrayed by a spy named Johann Schmidt, who destroyed our base of operations as well as all the data it contained, killed most of the scientists who worked there, and escaped with the only remaining vial of super soldier serum. This has resulted in the Nazis being more of a threat than they have ever been before."

Namor snorted derisively, "Hmph, so much for your vaunted American genius."

Steve gritted his teeth in anger, but was able to hold himself back from lashing out at the Atlantean king. Now was not the time for displays of passion.

Phillips paused, obviously for similar reasons, before continuing, "Fortunately, we were able to glean some valuable information from this catastrophe with the help of Captain America and the Patriot, here. On their first mission they were able to retrieve encrypted files from the German spy's base. One of these files, which we are still in the process of decoding, is labeled Operation Trump Card. The other one...contains top secret information regarding the most massive invasion ever attempted in military history...Operation Overlord."

At the mention of Overlord, all eyes were refocused on the Sergeant. Even Steve, who had heard mention of these plans before, felt a ball of fear form in the pit of his stomach. This was bad news, there was no denying it.

"Operation Overlord, also known as D-Day, will be a joint invasion on the beaches of Normandy, France with the combined forces of the United States, Britain, France, Canada, and several other countries on an _epic_scale. Folks, this battle will only be able to be described with _biblical_terms," Phillips explained. "Unfortunately, it only works if it is kept top secret until the moment of the actual invasion...and now the enemy has intimate knowledge of every step of the plan. This was our one chance to win this war...and now it's gone forever."

Silence reigned over the room in an oppressive blanket, "...Unless you talented men can do something about it."

Steve, James, Logan, and Namor's faces all turned up to look at the Sergeant, confusion evident on their features.

"The Nazis are going to have that beach so secure that there is no force on Earth that could break through," Phillips explained. "Our only hope would have been the super soldiers that Project Rebirth could have created. Well, the brass figures that if our own super soldiers aren't around, we'll just have to get them from somewhere else. And that's why we've gathered _you_here."

A shocked silence had replaced the dismal one from just a few moments ago. Steve couldn't believe what he was hearing. The only chance they had to win this war rested with this D-Day invasion...and the success of the invasion was being entrusted solely to _them_. They bore the fate of the world on their shoulders. How were they ever going to do this?

"We're hoping that with a team of extraordinary warriors such as yourselves on our side, you just might be able to tip the balance back in our favor," explained Phillips, with a grim smile. "Honestly, united together as a team, I don't think there's anything that the five of you can't accomplish."

"Did you say _five_?" James asked. "But there's only _four_of us here, sir."

Phillips shifted uncomfortably in his seat, "Well, _technicall__**y**_, the last member of the squad hasn't agreed to join us yet. Your first mission will be to contact him, convince him to ally himself with us, and get back here in time for the invasion."

"Well I can assure you that under _my_leadership, the mission will go off without a hitch, Sergeant," Namor said, clearly full of himself.

"Actually sir, we were planning to put Captain America here in charge of the team," Phillips explained in as calm a voice as possible.

"_Unacceptable_!" roared Namor, instantly raging again. "I have suffered your filthy stench and multiple indignities as long as I could, and _this_is the last straw! I refuse to cow-tow to your ridiculous notions of warfare any longer! Clearly you and your allies are incapable of winning this war on your own. If Atlantis is required to save you air-sucking cripples from yourselves, then so be it!"

"Now just a minute, Namor!" Sergeant Phillips exclaimed. "Captain America has the leadership capability, the training, and the strength to make a perfect squad leader. Not only that, but you are completely unfamiliar with the enemy, as well as life up on land at all. This is alien territory for you, and as such, in this one circumstance, I think it would be best to heed our advice!"

"King Namor is not someone to be talked down too!" the Atlantean bellowed, veins beginning to stick out from his forehead. "I will command this team or not be involved with it at all! I will not be led like a lamb to the slaughter by your incompetent captain! You are lucky that I have deigned to cooperate you at all instead of simply taking the entire surface world for myself to rule as I had originally intended!"

"Now that's enough!" Steve shouted, unable to listen to any more of the King's self-involved prattle. "Calm down, Namor!"

"You _dare_to address _Namor_?" shrieked the King. "You shall pay dearly for your insults, human!"

With that, Namor snapped completely. Before anyone could stop him, he had launched himself across the table, grabbed Steve, and hurtled through the wall, utterly smashing it and falling several stories outside the building to the pavement below, all in the blink of an eye, leaving the astonished witnesses left in the room behind them.

"_Steve_!" James shouted, racing to the gaping hole in the wall to try to catch a glimpse of his friend.

He didn't have to try hard to find them. The pair made quite a sight as they raced to the ground together. Steve had been taken completely by surprise, and was now trapped in Namor's grip, unable to move as they sped towards the ground. As they made contact, a bone shattering boom was heard echoing through the entire base while a cloud of dust and debris rose from the crater they had created.

Now all of the occupants of the room had gathered around the hole, desperately trying to peer through the smoke below for any sign of the super soldier. As the cloud dissipated, a lone figure could be seen silhouetted and standing proudly on the ground, breathing hard and covered in small scrapes and bruises...it was King Namor.

"Do you see now?" he asked, breathing heavily and wiping grime from his face. "This one couldn't possibly stand the rigors of war, much less lead an elite fighting squad to victory. I probably did him a favor by killing him now and putting him out of his misery."

James was just about to break rank and engage Namor himself when they heard a strong voice from just beneath the King, "Think again, jerk!"

Namor was completely caught off guard by Steve's lightning fast right hook. The metallic clang of his shield against the Atlantean's face rang out over the grounds like a bell. A cheer echoed from the upper room where the spectators watched the fight as Captain America rose from the crater and began hammering away at Namor, not giving him a moment to catch his breath or retaliate.

"You think you can say whatever you want about whoever you want?" raged the Captain as he beat Namor clear across the parking lot. "Well I've got news for you, mister. You will respect me and my friends as long as you are a guest in our country at all times! DO YOU GET ME?"

With a mighty grunt, Namor heaved his arm up and caught Cap's shield mid swing, "You want to know about respect, little man? I will _teach_you to respect my station even if I have to _beat_it into you with my own _fists_!"

That said, Namor kept a tight hold on Cap's arm with one hand, while reaching back with his other hand, making a tight fist, and punching Steve as hard as he possibly could. Even from his great distance, James was sure he heard several bones break as the force of the punch lifted Captain America clear off his feet and propelled him several yards away to land with a deafening blow in the middle of a nearby parking lot, completely flattening the car he'd landed on into rubble.

Steve hardly had time to stumble to his feet and bring his shield to bear before Namor swiftly flew in to continue his impressive assault. Blow upon crushing blow landed on the surface of the shield, each one sending Cap staggering backwards into other cars, often totaling them in mere seconds as he used them to the best of his ability to avoid Namor's attacks. The super soldier was now definitely on the defensive, unable to stand up to the Atlantean's overwhelming strength. The fight would certainly be lost if Cap couldn't think of something quick.

Grunting heavily with exertion, Captain America somersaulted over the back of the nearest car, giving himself momentary space from his foe, "Hey James," he called out over his shoulder as loud as he could. "Throw me a light!"

In a panic, James hurriedly fumbled around in his pockets for his lighter (which he only kept because he thought it was cool since he didn't smoke), and hurled it as hard as he could towards his friend, " Catch!"

His stamina quickly waning, Captain America sprinted over the cars in his way as fast as his legs would take him, Namor close on his heels. Leaping to the air, he caught the lighter and landed as deftly as he could on the ground. With a flick of his thumb, he snapped the light on as Namor came to a halt, facing him confidently.

"Hah, what do you expect to do with that, soldier?" scoffed the King. "Is your goal perhaps to irritate me into submission?"

Steve allowed himself a cocky smile, "No Namor, I expect you to burn."

As Namor's face adopted a confused expression, Steve tossed the lighter into the puddle of gasoline that had been leaking from the nearest destroyed vehicle and had been pooling, unnoticed, at the Atlantean King's feet. As an angry bellow erupted from Namor's throat, the gasoline caught fire and rose to envelop his entire body. Intense flames engulfed Namor completely, sending sparks flying as he flailed about in a futile effort to rid himself of the fire.

Steve wasted no time pressing his advantage. He leapt into action, beating Namor mercilessly with his shield, taking no notice of the inferno that was singeing him as well.

While he was still concerned for his friend's safety, James nodded from his position in the meeting room. Everyone had heard rumors during Namor's past attack on New York. As he was Atlantean, and had been raised under the ocean, so it had been theorized that the only reason the Human Torch had been able to stop him was that Namor was weak against extreme heat since his body was not used to those conditions. Steve had shown amazing intellect and clear thinking while in the midst of the fight, taking advantage of his surroundings and luring the ruler to the puddle of gasoline in order to weaken him. James shook his head in admiration, what a guy.

Meanwhile, Captain America clearly had Namor on the ropes. The raging flames had apparently sapped the Atlantean of most of his strength, but Steve was teetering on the brink of exhaustion as well. With a strength born of desperation, Namor finally succeeded in shoving Steve away for a few seconds, looking around in a panic for something he could use to smother the flames around him.

Knowing that he needed an edge to end the fight, Steve took the opportunity to glance at the ground and find the nearest razor sharp shard of glass from one of the cars they'd destroyed. In a flash, he had turned, ducked down, grabbed the glass shard, and had risen again, and before his adversary could do anything, he had the jagged edge pressed against his enemy's neck.

"I don't know if this would normally hurt you at all, Namor," growled Captain America in his most dangerous voice. "But in this vulnerable state, it could kill you. This fight is over."

"Indeed...it is," Namor panted, his voice strained with effort.

Steve slowly looked up from his position holding the jagged glass. Apparently while he had stooped to grab the weapon, Namor had taken the opportunity to find a weapon of his own. Using the last of his strength, the King had picked up an entire car, and was now holding it threateningly over the Captain's head. The standoff continued for agonizing seconds, both combatants knowing that their speed was evenly matched, not willing to sacrifice themselves to take the other one out.

Finally, with an agonizing groan, Namor tossed the car harmlessly to the side, "Alright Captain, I'll admit it, you are far stronger than I had at first assumed. Perhaps all surface peoples are not as cowardly and weak as I thought. You have earned my respect. I will follow your lead as the more experienced in the matters of land warfare," he said, extending his arm to shake.

Captain America firmly grasped Namor's hand, despite the fact that the rest of his body was trembling with fatigue, "You are a fine warrior, and I would be honored to fight by your side," he agreed. "I can assure you that I will respect your throne...as long as you keep a civil tongue when it comes to my countrymen."

Despite the fairly serious wounds that covered him from head to toe, Namor couldn't help but laugh heartily, "You drive a hard bargain, Captain America. You have my word!"

Then the two opponents collapsed onto the pavement in the middle of the pile of cars that they had unwittingly destroyed.

"_These_are the people who are going to be saving the world?" asked Logan, in a quietly gruff voice.

"We're doomed," agreed James.


	12. Chapter 12

The Age of Marvels: Chapter Twelve

Captain America

and the

Invaders

Part Twelve

_** During the darkest days of World War II, America stood united against the threat of the Nazi Germany war machine. Our Greatest Generation sacrificed everything in order to stem the forces of oppression from overrunning our very planet, led under the fearless banner of the greatest warrior of our time, Captain America. Inspired by his courageous example, and with the aid of his misfit band of Invaders, Captain America led the forces of freedom to victory, changing his world forever.**_

New Jersey

The home of Mr. Barnes

Colonel Fury sat back in his chair, wide eyed, and with an expression of disbelief painted across his face, "I had _no idea___that the Invaders were so...dysfunctional!"

Mr. Barnes laughed heartily, "No one knew, Colonel. It wasn't as big a secret as the brass liked to think that we were basically in charge of keeping the world out of Nazi hands, and if everyone thought that we were a bunch of screw-ups we would have had a national panic to deal with."

"But as we began to get to know each other, our team started to come together," the old man continued, taking another absentminded bite of his dinner, which was now sitting on his plate having long gotten cold. "That's what happens in wartime, you begin to bond with the good men that you served with. Even if you only knew them for a couple days, for some reason you remember them for the rest of your life."

He paused as he glanced up at his guest, "I'm sure you know what I'm talking about, Colonel."

Even though to the naked eye it would appear that the two men sitting in the living room that night couldn't be more different, they had both spent a lifetime serving their country, and that brings people together in immeasurable ways; so while reflecting Mr. Barnes' spirit in his own eyes, Fury replied, "Yes sir, I understand completely."

May, 1944

Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean

"Okay people, quiet down and listen up, you're gonna want to hear this!" Steve Rogers shouted over the thundering drone of the propellers.

James Barnes, Logan, and Namor turned their full attention to Steve, and prepared for what he had to say. The four of them had spent the last hour hunkered down in whatever free space they could find in the modified B-25 bomber that had been assigned to fly them to their first destination. But it was a long trip across the Atlantic, and James in particular was getting bored.

The team had been scheduled for their first mission the morning after their initial meeting, but they'd had to delay it a few days so that Steve and Namor could recover from their injuries. So as soon as was possible, they had all donned their uniforms, strapped on all the supplies they'd need, and were herded into the belly of the specially conscripted, heavily modified bomber aircraft and sent on their way.

James vaguely recalled that they'd been told by Sergeant Phillips that they were to take especially good care of the plane. Apparently there was no way that an aircraft was capable of flying all the way across the ocean without stopping to gas up, but _this___crate could do it. All of the weapons and bombing equipment had been taken out and retrofitted with a state-of-the-art fuel system to make this B-25 the farthest flying plane in the world. Its pilot had been instructed to drop them off at their destination and then wait at a nearby allied airstrip for their return...if they were ever _able___to return. Steve, in his new capacity as leader, had been discussing the details of their plan with the pilot since they'd taken off, but was now prepared to finally let the rest of his team know what was going on.

James took a second before his friend began the briefing to marvel at his progress. In his mind's eye, James could still picture Steve as the scrawny little wimp that had grown up in Brooklyn. Now here he was, fully trained and focused as ever, commanding the most elite fighting force the world had ever seen. It was truly remarkable how quickly Steve had accepted his position. James had to admit that he was a natural leader.

"James, are you paying attention?" asked Steve.

"Oh, yeah Steve. Go ahead," James answered, snapping back to the present.

"I know it's loud in here, so I'll try to speak up," announced Captain America, his commanding presence demanding his teammates' attention. "As you all know, the Invaders Initiative's primary objective (that's us) is to lead the Allied forces into battle on D-Day, which will be the most massive invasion in history. This will win or lose the entire war for us, so we have to be prepared."

Steve continued, "Now the invasion is set to begin on June 5th, so we've only got a month to make sure we're ready. To that effect, we need to have our team as strong as possible to make sure that we are able to handle whatever Hitler has waiting for us on the beach that day."

"And how do we do that?" asked Namor, with only a hint of disdain in his tone.

"Well, originally the brass had planned for this team to include _five___members," explained Steve. "But the final member..._aggressively___denied our government's invitation."

"_Aggresively___denied?" Logan asked.

"The messenger had to be immediately hospitalized due to severe poisoning and puncture wounds upon his return."

"Oh, this sounds like it's gonna be fun," James commented.

Steve ignored his friend, "Our target's name is T'Chaka, but he is more widely known as the Black Panther, and he is the warrior king of the African nation of Wakanda."

At these words the bomber bay was shocked into silence. Rumors of the legendary Wakandans had spread throughout the world like wildfire. For centuries the outer world had trembled and thrilled to the stories of the fierce Wakandans whose technology and society dwarfed that of any other culture on Earth. The thought of actually stepping foot inside Wakanda both terrified and excited the hearts of every Invader onboard.

Captain America's voice cut the silence like a knife, "As you know, Wakanda is a small nation in central Africa, and since it heavily enforces a strict, isolationist, closed borders policy, information on it is sketchy at absolute best. However, legend has it that their technology is decades or even _lifetimes___beyond any other country on the planet and that they enjoy a utopian society devoid of poverty or illness."

"Impossible!" protested Namor, incredulously. "These are feats that even mighty Atlantis cannot boast, and there is _no one___more prosperous than Atlantis."

Steve shrugged, "I'm every bit as skeptical as you are, Namor," he admitted. "I'm just relaying to you what was told to me."

"What about this 'Black Panther'?" asked Logan. "What do we know of him?"

Steve admitted, "Not much, Logan. T'Chaka has been king for a long time, and his subjects adore him. As far as his title goes, we know that while there is a Wakandan royal family, in order to ascend the throne, each new king must pass the Trials of the Panther God, to assume the warrior's mantle of the Black Panther."

"Whoa, this sounds serious," said James.

"Again, the legends claim that the Black Panther's agility and strength are without equal, and it is these abilities that attracted the attention of the top brass, and why they want him on the team," finished Steve. "Our mission is to infiltrate Wakandan borders and recruit him. We may not be able to win this war without his help."

"This is ridiculous," Namor snapped. "All we have to go on are legends and hearsay. For all we know, this T'Chaka person may not even exist."

Steve shrugged again, "Intelligence says he's our man, Namor."

"Not every country views allying itself with America to be beneficial," pointed out Logan, quietly. "How are we going to convince T'Chaka to join us when so many others have failed?"

"We'll just have to be as persuasive as possible," answered Steve, confidently. "After all, I don't see how it would be in Wakanda's best interests to just sit by and hand the Nazis the continent on a silver platter, which brings me to our more immediate problem."

"Oh, because we don't have enough problems already!" complained James.

Steve continued to ignore him, "While the Nazis don't have enough resources to invade Africa because they're already committed to fighting this war on two fronts, they have made their presence known. They have established several small bases around North Africa, in Egypt, Libya, and Algeria. The base that concerns us is on the coast of Morocco, and it lies directly in our path. If we are going to get to Wakanda, we need to go through this base."

"What do you have in mind?" asked Namor, his eyes gleaming dangerously at the thought of battle.

"Upon arrival at the Moroccan base, we will disperse into small teams and hit it hard and fast," Steve explained, grimly. "It's only a small installation, so between the four of us we should be enough to take it down without military backup. Once we've destroyed it we'll continue on to Wakanda. It will be quite a while before we reach Morocco, so I'll give you a more thorough briefing later. For now, why don't you try to get as much rest as you can."

With that, Steve had finished his briefing, and turned to climb back into the cockpit with the pilot. James wished that he could have joined his friend, but he knew the responsibilities of leadership took priority now. Besides, he still hadn't wrapped his head around their new mission. It was only their first _official___mission, but it was more demanding than he had ever imagined.

"I can't believe it," James muttered. "I'm going to _Africa_. I'll even be one of the first outsiders in history to enter _Wakanda_! ...We're all gonna die."

"Don't be so sure of that, American whelp," replied Namor. "You have the unbridled power of the King of Atlantis on your side. Victory is well within our grasp."

"Hey, don't dismiss us Americans so quickly," James boasted. "We ain't afraid of _nobody_!"

"You are naive," interjected Logan. "You disregard those that you do not respect, and American respect is bought only through the shared values of modernity and mass-produced military acuity. Do not underestimate the old ways, or the hatred that other cultures feel for outsiders. The Wakandans are powerful, and without your respect, they will never ally themselves with us. This is why the Japanese loathe you so completely, and I am sure that King Namor, as ruler of Atlantis, can identify with these emotions."

Namor gave a slow nod, "You are wise, Logan. It is clear that life has been a cruel teacher to you."

Ronin said nothing, but bowed his head in silence where he sat.

James looked from one to the other, blankly, "Well I see that you two are going to be a regular laugh riot. Now who's up for poker?"

Four hours later, James had lost all of his money, as well as his jacket and boots. Across from him, Logan wiggled his toes inside his shiny new boots while he smoked a cigar, and Namor had his new jacket slung around his head like a bandana, comically obscuring his eyes while a dozen discarded beer bottles rolled lazily beside him. James, on the other hand, was freezing.

"Man, you guys cleaned me out," he whined, shivering in the bomb bay. "How'd you two get so good at cards, anyway?"

Logan puffed at his cigar contentedly, "When one has seen as many seasons as I, one picks up a few things."

Namor gave a lopsided grin, "Admittedly, surface-dweller, I have never played your game of _cards___before, but like the rest of your culture, it was child's play for an Atlanean to master."

"Oh look at me, I'm from Atlantis and I can talk to fish," James muttered to himself.

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

"You know, fish face, you act like you're so high and mighty, but you're sitting here freezing your gills off just like the rest of us, so why don't you give it a rest," said James, reshuffling the cards.

"Rest assured, _peasant_, that I am only here out of necessity. As soon as this irritating war is concluded I will be returning to my throne and my people," Namor replied, haughtily. "And hopefully I will never have to see _you___again."

"We can all dream, can't we?" asked James. "Seriously though, I don't get it. You keep talking about how much you hate the Nazis, but you live in friggin' _Atlantis___for cripes' sake. I don't even understand how you got involved in the first place."

"It wasn't by choice, air-breather. It wasn't by choice..."

August, 1943

Undisclosed waters under the Mediterranean Sea

King Namor shifted restlessly on his underwater throne. Despite all the years he had reigned over his kingdom, he _still___was not comfortable with the idea of sitting in his palace while there was danger about...even if it was one of the most remote and magnificent places on Earth.

Stretching almost too high for the eye to see, the royal throne room of Atlantis could still take the King's breath away. Tall, ornately carved arches supported the ceiling, connected by one-of-a-kind architecture which appeared to flow around the entire structure, mimicking the waves and currents which connected all Atlanteans together just like all the architecture connected the city.

The throne itself was carved from the rarest, most splendid coral on the planet, painstakingly crafted to express the wild, passionate side that its nation, and perhaps even more so, its ruler, embodied. And instead of a red carpet leading towards the throne (since Atlanteans swam everywhere instead of walking) the way to the King was lit by a hundred shimmering, glowing orbs, suspended in the water by nearly invisible means, throwing the entire hall in brilliant, unearthly colors.

But all of that splendor was lost on the King at that moment, so consumed was he with the problems that had recently cast their shadow over his people. Reports had been coming in for days now concerning the unusual activity taking place at the surface, where the waves met the wind. Namor of course knew that the political climate in the surface world had been deteriorating for years, and had even led to war over an alarmingly large area, but the Atlanteans rarely concerned themselves with these issues, since they were of no concern to Atlantis itself...until now.

While Atlantis was very aware of the pathetic fleets the humans used to travel the waves, these fragile ships were inconsequential to the Atlantean's way of life. However, when a large fleet of the human's new submersibles had gathered almost directly over the ground where Atlantis rested, the King was alerted immediately.

Ordinarily, Namor would not have hesitated to wipe the humans out simply for straying too close to his kingdom, but recent experiences had taught him the folly of such a plan. Despite their ignorance and stupidity, the humans themselves were legion, and there was strength in numbers. He had learned much from his encounter with the Americans a decade ago when he had ordered the invasion of New York City. And according to his scouts, these submersibles (known as U-boats) bore the crest of the new German political organization that had recently seized control of their country and had proved quite hostile to the rest of the world, known as the Nazis. No, this situation was a delicate one. Their fleet was quite large and Atlantis was not as expansive as it once was. He must handle this with care and let _them___make the first move.

Unfortunately, their first move meant disaster for Namor and his people.

He straightened up on his throne as a small messenger rushed through the palace in a panic, "Sire, the submersibles, they are diving towards us and dropping explosive _depth charges_! What are your orders?"

Namor stood, rising to his full height, "Command all squads to move out! Destroy as many depth charges as possible, but do not engage the submersibles until I arrive. Understood?"

The trembling messenger nodded weakly and then sped off to the barracks from whence he had come, "Attendants!" shouted Namor, fiercely. "Fetch my armor. Gird me for war!"

Within minutes Namor was ready. Proudly wearing ancient, gold plated armor the likes of which the surface world had never seen, he made haste to the battlefield above his beloved city. Brightly setting off his black uniform, golden shells decorated the armor protecting his legs and arms while a massive breastplate in the likeness of a mollusk safeguarded his chest with a similar gleaming helmet atop his head. All of which matched the massive, razor-sharp golden trident which he now wielded in his hands. Yes, it was clear to all present that King Namor meant business.

As soon as he arrived, the warrior king immediately appraised the situation. His army had succeeded in destroying _most _of the mines that had descended on the kingdom, but they just didn't have the manpower to take care of them all. The first of them had already begun to detonate amidst their ancient city, and while the commoners had already been evacuated, it broke the King's heart to see the destruction the Nazis wrought.

"On my mark, we engage the submersibles!" Namor roared, addressing his troops as rage embraced his heart. "_Charge_!"

A mighty bellow erupted from the assembled Atlantean force as they assaulted the submarines. Using his titanic strength, Namor ripped straight through the hull of the nearest U-boat with his trident, instantly crippling it as it began to list to the side. Not satisfied yet, and made impatient with his boiling anger, he tackled the side of the craft and using all of his might, pushed it into the nearest U-boat, killing all crewmen aboard both__vessels.

Taking a moment to recover from the exertion of his attack, King Namor cast his eyes to the rest of the battle. While the average Atlantean was far stronger than the average human, mostly due to the intense pressures of living so far under the ocean, they were proving mostly ineffective against the submersibles. Each U-boat was coated in a very thick layer of iron to protect them from the extreme conditions of their underwater environment, and even with their lances and tridents, the Atlantean army was doing little damage. The few U-boats that they had thus far managed to destroy would make little difference in the face of the hundred__submarine fleet. Even with their King spearheading their efforts, by the time the fleet was wiped out, their city would have been utterly destroyed and their army in tatters.

"Bring forth the cannons!" bellowed Namor, while he attempted to regroup his men.

The cannon regiment was a specialized squad of Atlantean soldiers who were expertly trained to man their most impressive weapons, the pressure cannons. Since the German submersibles were relatively slow, they had more than enough time to place them in position while the main force delayed the enemy.

The pressure cannons were of an ancient design which was inspired by watching the cephalopods that were common to the region. As wide as a city bus and shaped like an elongated seashell, the pressure cannons were manned by about two soldiers each. When the squad leader gave the signal, the team would pull the spring loaded trigger, causing a massive pump at the end of the cannon to jam into the barrel at amazing speed. The resulting water pressure would launch their projectile straight at the enemy with devastating force and deadly accuracy, exploding on impact. Of course, their weaknesses included the lengthy amount of time it took them to be reloaded, and the difficulty involved in moving them, as well as the fact that there we only about half a dozen of them in existence.

However, as Namor ordered them to fire, it was clear that the weapons proved extremely effective. Massive explosions rocked the front line of the German offensive, immediately downing several targets. As soon as the explosions subsided, Namor and his troops pressed their attack, giving the pressure cannon squads a chance to reload.

However, after another astonishing volley from the cannons, it seemed that the Nazis had had enough. Despite impressive losses, the submarines were now within range of their target, and they had no intention of letting the Atlanteans off the hook.

With a _devastating___synchronized attack, all of the U-boats let fly a volley of hundreds__of torpedoes, shredding straight through the unsuspecting Atlantean ranks and speeding directly towards their beloved city. Before his very eyes Namor witnessed more than a fourth of his capital city as it was completely wiped out. Each explosion sent out ripples of force and air that created massive bubbles that for a second, resembled small mushroom clouds which enveloped his entire city. Buildings that had stood for thousands of years were obliterated in an instant. The devastation spanned as far as the eye could see, and would remain a permanent scar in the minds of the Atlantean people for generations to come.

The shock of what had been done to his subjects had barely registered to Namor before unendurable anger and frustration, of a kind that he had never felt before, completely overwhelmed his heart. Barely remembering to order his soldiers to stand down, he put his fingers to his lips and sent out a shrill whistle, far more powerful than any in the history of his race, one that could be heard through the disturbed waters for miles in every direction. Then, with a speed that defied description, he raced to the rear of the enemy lines and began swimming in a circle so fast that his body became merely a blur in the sea.

His Atlantean subjects knew their King well enough to take cover when he was like this, but they had never seen Namor's rage at such an extent. The Nazis, on the other hand, were caught completely off guard.

As ruler of Atlantis, Namor reserved the right to communicate with the creatures of the sea, and while he had never commanded them to the extent that he did that day, those creatures, great and small, one and all, from all over the Mediterranean, responded to the call of the Sub-Mariner. They swarmed over the unsuspecting German force, blinding them and causing them to smash into each other, giving them no choice but to retreat in a panicked frenzy. Some of the larger creatures, several of which had never before been seen by human eyes, were able to tear the relatively tiny submarines apart, immediately killing the sailors inside.

Unfortunately for the Nazis, Namor had a surprise waiting for them directly in the path of their retreat. By swimming in a circular fashion at blistering speeds over and over again, Namor had created a massive whirlpool. So great was the inescapable force of the whirlpool that it spanned from the water's surface, all the way down to the bottom of the ocean's depths. Already it was too late for most of the U-boats to escape the deadly pull of the whirlpool, and one by one they were sucked inside and smashed into scrap metal by the pulverizing speed and pressure of the underwater tornado.

While Namor viewed the massacre regally from his position near the whirlpool, his soldiers clung to the rocky outcroppings close to what was left of their home, cowering against the unbridled fury of their King. Never before had they witnessed such raw power unleashed from their ruler. Atlantis had been mostly at peace for hundreds of years now, and while fighting above the surface, such as during the invasion of New York, Namor's strength was somewhat reduced. But there, under the waves, there was no one on _Earth___that could match the raw strength that the Sub-Mariner possessed.

All hail the King.

All eyes were on Namor as he finished his story and bowed his head in silence. He did not relish reliving what he considered to be his greatest failure. Nor did he wish to meet the eyes of his comrades now that they knew his reason for fighting.

"I don't understand," said James, after a minute. "What's the big deal? You beat the Nazis, right? Sounds like you beat 'em good, too."

Namor's eyes flashed with anger, though for once he held it in check, "Yes, upworlder, technically the battle ended in victory for our side. However, we paid a heavy price in return. Large sections of our city have been reduced to rubble, and it will be a _very___long time before we can rebuild it. My citizens lost homes, jobs, and some have lost all their belongings to the insatiable greed of the Nazis. Furthermore, while the war continues, I have been forced to evacuate my entire nation to a new location, as we cannot risk living in Atlantis while the enemy knows of its location. Our way of life, our entire _culture___hangs in the balance of this conflict. And since I am the only one who can breathe your air and survive in your environment, the entire burden of saving my people belongs solely to _me_."

A large gloved hand reached out from nowhere to grasp the King's shoulder, "I know how you feel, friend," said Steve Rogers, reassuringly. "I'm the only one of my kind, too. There was originally supposed to be a whole division__of super soldiers fighting for our country, but after what happened at Project Rebirth, I was the only one left. For _my___country, _my___people, I am the only one who can be expected to bear the burden of responsibility of defeating the Nazis. People like us__have to stick together."

"Well, you guys might think you're something new, but don't forget that you still have to put up with _me___while we kick those Krauts right back to Germany!" James exclaimed, standing up with Namor and Steve.

"Yes, I too will share the honor of fighting this foe with you," Logan agreed. "I will stand by you all until our task is complete. Come what may."

"That's good to hear," said Steve, grimly. "Because very soon we'll be in Moroccan airspace. Gear up, our first mission begins in less than an hour."


	13. Chapter 13

The Age of Marvels: Chapter Thirteen

Captain America

and the

Invaders

Part Thirteen

_**During the darkest days of World War II, America stood united against the threat of the Nazi Germany war machine. Our Greatest Generation sacrificed everything in order to stem the forces of oppression from overrunning our very planet, led under the fearless banner of the greatest warrior of our time, Captain America. Inspired by his courageous example, and with the aid of his misfit band of Invaders, Captain America led the forces of freedom to victory, changing his world forever.**_

New Jersey

The home of Mr. Barnes

As the two war veterans continued talking, they could hear the other residents of the house shuffling around upstairs getting ready for bed. Occasionally, Colonel Fury could see one of the children peeking around the corner into the room, doubtlessly curious about what their grandfather could possibly be talking about for such a length of time. Mr. Barnes himself took no notice though. In fact, it seemed to Fury that the longer he spoke about the war, the younger he became. He had already gained a gleam in his eyes and a spry way of holding himself that had been nonexistent four hours ago. Of course, all of this was lost on the old man, made young again by the vivid memories of his past.

"While Namor's story was certainly a good one," he continued, undaunted by the time. "We had a lot on our minds that day. After all, our first mission was beginning, and we had _no___idea how it was going to turn out."

"What do you mean?" Fury asked. "You guys were the _Invaders_. Was the outcome ever really in question?"

Mr. Barnes chuckled, "Certainty comes with age, Colonel, and back then, we were _very___new to the theater of war. We didn't know _what___was going to happen."

"But the base you were about to attack was in Morocco, right? I didn't think the Nazis had any major bases in Africa during the war. It should have been a cinch for you guys. Come to think of it, any Allied attack force should have been able to put them down, so why the heck did they send _you___in?" asked Fury, thinking out loud.

Barnes leaned back into his chair and smiled, "Good question, Colonel. Make no mistake, it was no _coincidence _that the higher-ups had charted our way to Wakanda straight through that Nazi base. This part of the mission was a _test___to see how we operated as a team. We needed actual experience in the field if we were going to be ready for the legendary might of the Wakandans, and Morocco was how we got it."

May, 1944

Morocco

The propeller engines of the massive B-25 flying fortress hummed loudly over the bomb bay as Steve Rogers hoisted his shield and made his way over to address his fellow Invaders, "Listen up, men! We are approaching the Nazi stronghold so I'm only gonna say this once. Here's our attack plan," he said as he handed out a pair of silver metallic backpack contraptions.

"We're splitting up into two teams. One team will act as a distraction, hitting the middle of the fort's courtyard and making as much noise as possible. The other team will be infiltrating the base and blowing it up from the inside."

"Don't worry, Steve. You and me can take whatever those Nazis throw at us," said James, grinning confidently.

Steve put his hand on his friend's shoulder, "Not this time, buddy. You're teaming up with Namor. Your job is to cover him while he rips up their ranks as the distraction."

James looked genuinely depressed as Namor mockingly ruffled his hair, "Worry not, _peasant_. King Namor will make sure you don't get a boo-boo."

Steve ignored the pair, "Meanwhile, Logan and I will use the commotion you cause to sneak into their base so we can plant these time-bombs against the load bearing walls and destroy the fort once and for all."

"The plan appears sound," Logan nodded, accepting several time-bombs from Steve. "But how are we to approach the stronghold. Surely by now the Nazis know of our presence."

"That's what these are for," answered Steve, indicating the backpacks. "When I give the signal, pull this cord and follow my lead."

Namor stiffened with indignation, "And why is it that _I___am the only one who was not presented with one of these mechanical miracles? _Discrimination_, is it?"

Steve smiled, "No such luck, Namor. You're the only one who can fly, right? You don't _need___one."

James groaned, "I was afraid you were gonna say something like that."

"No time for whining, Patriot," Steve replied as the bomb doors groaned open. "This is it, soldiers; codenames from now on. Remember, we're the _Invaders_, we can handle this. Remember why you're fighting, and keep a cool head on your shoulders. Here we go!" With that said, Captain America spread his arms wide and leaped out the back of the plane.

"Oh my God, he just jumped out of a _plane_!" James exclaimed, terrified. "I can't do that! It's _suicide_!"

"Then allow me to help you," smiled Namor, gently shoving James out headfirst. "Enjoy your flight, air-breather."

"Yaaaaahhhh!" shrieked James, plummeting to the ground in a panic.

"Do you require a little..._encouragement___as well?" Namor asked his last remaining teammate.

"No thank you," Logan replied in a voice that bordered on sarcasm. "I think I know what Rogers has in mind."

"Then by all means, let us join our American friends," Namor agreed, as he and Logan jumped from the plane together.

While Namor had been flying for most of his life, it was safe to say that none of the other Invaders had ever jumped from a flying aircraft before. The experience was an exhilarating one to say the least. The coastline of Morocco was spread under them in all its glory from one horizon to the next, with the Nazi stronghold just beneath them. As small clouds rushed past them, leaving water droplets clinging to their uniforms, each Invader took the opportunity to study their opponent's home.

The base really could be best described as a fort. It was small and ugly and made primarily of concrete; but despite its diminutive stature it still dominated the countryside. It was mostly surrounded by rugged wasteland, with a town located several miles to the south-east. The fort itself consisted of a large central building accompanied by several smaller structures encapsulated within a protective wall. Namor and James' target would be the wide courtyard in the center of the complex, while Steve and Logan would be aiming for the large central building. Destroying that building would surely cripple the entire base, rendering the German presence there mostly harmless.

Steve, who was in the lead, having exited the craft first, gave a sharp wave of his hand, and when he was sure the others were watching, yanked the cord on the bottom of his backpack. Instantly two large wings emerged from the pack, spreading to an impressive width as they began slightly arresting his fall. James' eyes widened with wonder as he and Logan gave their packs similar tugs and found that they had, in essence, sprouted wings!

"Woohoo! This is _so_ cool!" shouted James, a wide smile spreading across his face while he twisted and turned, coasting on the winds. "I'm flying!"

Unfortunately, it was at that time that Namor chose to fly in circles around him, the small wings on his ankles beating madly, as he gave a condescending smile and waved while easily outmaneuvering his teammate.

"Frigging Atlanteans," James muttered under his breath, even though he knew that the roaring winds would have drowned his voice out even if he had shouted it at the top of his lungs.

Even though it was obvious that they were clearly gliding, not flying, propelled by the force of the winds after their abrupt evacuation from the bomber, it was still one of the most memorable, exhilarating experiences of their lives to be soaring through the skies, kept aloft by nothing by the wings on their backs. Steve, James, and Logan had never felt anything like it before, the utter and complete freedom that could be offered by nothing but the open sky before them. It was enough to bring a smile to even the most hardened of faces. However, their elation didn't last long, as the ground, which had been so distant only moments ago, seemed to accelerate towards them at an alarming pace, and the mission that had appeared to at one time be only something just a bit more than a team building exercise was replaced by the grim reality of war.

The courtyard of the Moroccan base was not exactly bustling with activity...as usual. The Nazi outpost was fairly small and remote, so it wasn't a high priority to the top brass. It was mostly meant to establish a beachhead in that part of Africa, so that when the Germans began their inevitable march on the 'dark continent', it would go much smoother. But right now it was where soldier's careers went to die.

"Greetings, fellow Nazi! Sure is hot and sunny out here today, isn't it?"

"It most assuredly is, fellow Nazi. Not like when we were stationed in New York. Here there is no shade, and my swastika itches quite uncomfortably. Also, the other day, I was attacked by a baboon."

"That is most unfortunate, fellow Nazi. I quite dislike the baboons. They are somewhat aggressive...and they smell like poop."

"Funny story about poop..." the stupid Nazi guard replied. "...Say, do you hear that?"

At that moment, King Namor hit the ground like a bomb! The impact of his plummet sent up a huge cloud of dust, bricks, and granite, and blew a huge hole into the middle of the courtyard. Screams and shouts rang out from around the outpost as soldiers rushed to get a handle on their weapons, having been caught completely off guard.

As the dust slowly began to clear and the screams subsided, there could only be seen one lone figure, standing in the epicenter of the crater he had created, heaving with the exertion of his landing, his black uniform proudly standing out in the strong African sunlight. He was King Namor, the Sub-Mariner, and he had come to conquer that base.

Shouts of alarm and panic sounded off across the courtyard as the first shots were fired at the mystery assailant. Using his wings for extra momentum, Namor charged with startling speed at the Nazis, raining blows upon them with his crushing strength. The base was engulfed in pandemonium as chaos seized control of the area.

"Aaaahhh! I can't stop this crazy thing!" James screamed as he hurtled to the ground behind the Atlantean prince. "Help!"

Unable to control his descent, the Patriot veered wildly across the base, eventually plowing directly into a truck which was unfortunate enough to have been parked in his path. An undignified clatter could be heard as James knocked the truck right over, accompanied by a painful yelp.

"Yeah, I totally stuck the landing," James muttered to himself as he yanked the glider off his back. "Man, what was I thinking, joining this outfit?"

But he didn't have time to ponder his life decisions, as James turned to find three fully armed Nazis pointing their guns straight at him.

With bullets flying across the outpost and explosions ripping apart what remained of the courtyard, Steve and Logan had no problem landing on the opposite end of the base. The sounds of their groundfall were muffled by the fight raging across the outpost as they took shelter on the far end of the main building which was their target.

Slipping off their glider packs, Captain America hoisted his shield over his shoulder as he signaled Ronin to follow his lead. As stealthily as they could, the pair made their way around the building until they came to a small set of stairs that led down to one of the lower levels. Without the guards who were doubtlessly supposed to be stationed there who must have left to join the fight against Namor, the Invaders easily swung it open and gained access to the building.

However, as soon as they were inside, they ran into a small group of soldiers who were about to rush out to fight in the battle. Exhibiting lightning reflexes, and without sharing a word, Cap and Ronin reacted in a flash. Knowing that their mission depended on avoiding detection, they silently dispatched the small group with hardly a sound.

The super soldier used his triangular shield to slam the first opponent into the wall, instantly rendering him unconscious as his skull crunched into the concrete. With the same fluid motion, he spun around, kicking the second German solidly in the face with impossible strength.

At the same time, Ronin had drawn his custom made katana blade, slicing it completely through his first adversary before his victim even had time to register what was happening. Before the last Nazi could even manage a cry for help, the samurai had dropped him as well, and the fight was over within a matter of seconds.

Motioning down the hallway, the two Invaders continued on their way, plummeting into the depths of the base.

"Woah!" James shouted in alarm, barely managing to dodge behind the seat of the truck before the Nazi guards opened fire on him. "Why does this kind of thing only happen to _me_?"

Drawing his guns with expert timing taught to him during Project Rebirth by his teacher, Stick, the Patriot lunged out from behind his cover, mowing down the unsuspecting guards before they could get a bead on him. Then, wiping away the sweat from his forehead, he turned his attention across the courtyard.

James shouldn't have wasted time worrying about Namor, because the Sub-Mariner was holding his own. He was bellowing mightily, shredding through the mass of troops as if they were paper. Their bullets could do nothing to the King of Atlantis, as they bounced harmlessly off his body, more often than not ricocheting back into their own ranks. But James could see trouble coming fast for the monarch.

Gathering on the walls atop the main building (which Captain America and Ronin had just infiltrated) were several soldiers wielding rocket launchers. As they began the process of loading the weapons, the Patriot quickly took action. He didn't know whether a rocket was enough to kill Namor, but it certainly wouldn't feel good, and if his job was to cover his new friend, then that's just what he'd do.

As the Patriot, James had been entrusted with quite a bit of gear, one of which was a top of the line sniper rifle that he kept slung over his back. Crouching down and taking careful aim, trying to ignore the battle that was raging around him, James honed in on the Nazis with the heavy artillery. With two deafening shots, he had killed them both, their bodies falling to the yard below as the rocket launchers slipped from their hands.

Namor, momentarily ignoring the ragged forces that were still standing against him, took a second to turn and give James a thumbs-up; apparently aware of the danger he'd been in. Unfortunately, Patriot didn't have time to return the sentiment, as an earsplitting explosion rocked the base and the Sub-Mariner was sent crashing into the wall behind him.

At the lowest level of the base, in the innermost room of the main building, was the communications control center of the outpost. Though it was nothing to brag about, this was supposed to be the most well protected area of the entire Nazi operation, and it was where their commander and most well trained specialists could be found most of the time. Unfortunately for them, the majority of their guards were out fighting the only two Invaders that they knew about, which had left them vulnerable.

The two guards standing watch at the door turned as they heard a knock coming from the other side. Thinking nothing of it, they turned to open the door, and were both instantly sliced almost in half by Ronin's lightning fast blade. Before any of the other Nazis could even _think___about raising the alarm, Captain America jumped into the room throwing his shield directly at the control panel and smashing it to rubble. In a flash, Captain America and Ronin had engaged the remaining Germans, who had now begun to open fire. But in a flurry of fists and metal the fight was over, and Steve walked over to the destroyed control panel to retrieve his shield.

"Go ahead and plant the last of your time-bombs in here," said the super soldier to his teammate. "We have less than two minutes to get out of this building before they go off."

Logan gave a silent nod as he began planting the bombs. They were going to be cutting this close.

Groaning painfully, Namor picked himself up from the rubble that used to be the thick wall around the outpost only moments ago. Squinting his eyes through the dust, he could barely see the main cannon of a tank pointing straight at him. Some of the soldiers must have climbed into the only remaining tank he hadn't smashed in a last ditch attempt to expunge them from the grounds. They were going to pay for that.

"Patriot!" shouted Namor, his strong voice carrying over the battle. "Take care of the remaining soldiers. I'll deal with this."

As James gritted his teeth and prepared his weapons for the assault, still hidden behind the destroyed truck and waiting for the moment to strike, the tank let out another volley, heading straight for the King. With no apparent effort at all, the Sub-Mariner used his wings to gracefully dodge the projectile, launching himself towards the tank at full speed.

Patriot took the opportunity to charge the remaining soldiers who were still staring at Namor in awe. Taking full advantage of the futuristic, semi-automated weapons at his disposal, (which were all 'survivors' found in the wreckage of Project Rebirth, as were the experimental backpack gliders they had descended with) James tore through their already tattered ranks and was almost done with them before they realized what was happening.

Meanwhile, Namor had reached the tank before it could shoot out another blast. There was little that the cumbersome vehicle could do with the Atlantean perched on top of it but swivel its cannon in a futile effort to throw the King off. Grimacing with the effort of his attack, the Sub-Mariner ripped the entire upper half of the tank apart, sending metal shrapnel flying everywhere. Smoke poured out from the damage he had caused while the two men inside shrieked in panic. Their screams were cut short as Namor heartlessly disposed of them, tossing their bodies aside as he exited the useless wreck of the tank.

Patriot allowed himself a sigh of relief as he made short work of the last Nazi soldier in the courtyard, doing his best to ignore the blood that flowed across the ground, "Well (huff) that was (huff huff) fun."

"You did well," said Namor, smiling as he dusted his hands off. "You make a fine patsy, American."

James was about to reply when they heard a shout coming from inside the main building, "Take cover!" Captain America cried as he and Ronin sprinted away from the door as fast as they could. "Hurry, before they blow!"

James turned to run, but only made it a few yards when he was thrown off his feet by a _massive___explosion that threw his world upside down. The entire outpost appeared to have been split apart as the time-bombs went off, and enormous chunks of the building were blasted across the base. Rubble and shrapnel fell from the sky as a huge fireball erupted from what once had been a functional military stronghold. While the ringing subsided from their ears, the Invaders picked themselves up and looked at one another, as if to confirm that the battle had indeed been won.

"Well, that was certainly an interesting way to spend a Friday," joked the Patriot, smiling. "We should do this again sometime."

"Is everyone alright?" Captain America asked, ignoring James' remark. "There were no injuries, were there?"

"A few scrapes and bruises, I'm afraid," answered Namor, calmly. "But nothing serious."

Cap nodded, taking a look over their handiwork, "Great job, everyone. This outpost is scrap metal. We've done good work here today. The German presence in Morocco has been all but wiped out, and now we can proceed directly to Wakanda for our _real___mission."

"How are we to be extracted from here?" Ronin asked, eying their surroundings warily.

"Our pilot should have been keeping an eye out for that explosion," Steve explained. "He'll be along any minute to pick us up."

Right on cue, the blaring propellers of the B-25 could be heard approaching through the smoke clouded sky. As the Invaders walked to meet with their transport, the smoldering remains and piles of rubble was all that remained of the outpost the Nazis had claimed in Morocco. The Invaders had proven themselves in battle for the first time, and while almost nothing remained of the legion of adversaries they had fought, the team had barely been scratched. For the first time, they felt _more___than ready for whatever the future may hold for them.


	14. Chapter 14

The Age of Marvels: Chapter Fourteen

Captain America

and the

Invaders

Part Fourteen

_**During the darkest days of World War II, America stood united against the threat of the Nazi Germany war machine. Our Greatest Generation sacrificed everything in order to stem the forces of oppression from overrunning our very planet, led under the fearless banner of the greatest warrior of our time, Captain America. Inspired by his courageous example, and with the aid of his misfit band of Invaders, Captain America led the forces of freedom to victory, changing his world forever.**_

__October, 2000

New Jersey

The home of Mr. Barnes

"Well, it sounds like you passed that test with flying colors!" Colonel Fury chuckled, leaning back on the couch. "Your teamwork was flawless."

"I guess we did__do a pretty swell job, didn't we?" the old man agreed, matching the Colonel's smile. "But as you know, Morocco was just a warm up. The real mission lay deep in the heart of Africa."

Fury finished his thought for him, "Wakanda."

Mr. Barnes nodded, "As far as we knew, the mission was just one big question mark. We knew next to nothing__about the Wakandans, their country, or their culture. But it was vital__to the war effort for us to recruit the Black Panther. After all, there were only the four of us on the Invaders, and another team member who had experience in battle could dramatically improve our odds. Remember, the Red Skull still possessed detailed information concerning our plans for the D-Day invasion, so the Invaders were the only chance we had."

"You were our wild card," Fury commented, thoughtfully.

Barnes nodded, "That's right. So even though we were walking into the unknown, the Black Panther was needed...and we were desperate."

May, 1944

Just outside Wakanda, Africa

Gazing outside the modified B-25's tiny bomb bay windows, James Barnes could see the African savannah stretching out to the horizon in all directions. Occasionally dotted with wiry trees and rocky outcroppings, it had become a mostly unentertaining flight. Oh sure, there were the roaming herds of elephants, gazelle, and giraffes meandering through the countryside, and James had been quite elated to catch his first sights of these most exotic animals, but after a while they had simply become a part of the scenery, and while he still watched them with interest as he flew by overhead, he had stopped pestering his teammates about them after Namor had threatened to punch him through the wall.

"How much longer until we get there?" whined James for the umpteenth time. "I'm tired of bouncing around back here. Can't we get some air?"

"If you continue whining in this juvenile manner, I'll make sure you have all the air you need," Namor growled, motioning out the window.

"We do have to fly over an entire continent, James," Steve said, entering the bomb bay. "But to answer your question, we should be entering Wakandan airspace within the next five minutes."

That__caught the attention of everyone on the team. Even Logan, who had been sitting quietly in the corner of the bay with his eyes closed and his legs crossed (he called it 'meditating') perked up at the mention of their destination. Noticing this, Steve wished he had better news for them.

"Now as you know, we have next to zero__knowledge about Wakanda. What we do know paints a very__intimidating picture," Steve continued, undaunted by the mission ahead. "We know that this country has never__been successfully invaded in its entire history, we know that it is probably the only place on Earth where the impossibly durable metal, vibranium, can be found. We know that its technology is generations__ahead of any other country on the planet, and that it supposedly enjoys a utopian society. And lastly, that it is led by their warrior king, the Black Panther. Our goal is to make contact with this Black Panther, and convince him to join the Invaders for our attack on Normandy in less than a month. Any questions?"

Logan politely raised his hand, "Is it true that your shield contains traces of vibranium, sempai? And if so, how is this possible?"

Steve unslung his star spangled, triangular shield from his back, and held it over his arm in full view of the team, "I was told that this shield was specifically developed by Dr. Erskine before his death for use by the super soldiers they were supposed to train. Since I was the only successful recruit, it was entrusted to me."

Steve gave the shield a quick forward thrust before he continued, "It was constructed with a blend of steel, titanium, and vibranium, the rarest metal in the world, making this one of a kind weapon virtually indestructible. I wasn't given any details on how Dr. Erskine acquired the vibranium, but I got the impression that it was through peaceful means."

"Then we will want to watch our step," Logan replied, standing to his full height. "For if these Wakandans do not prove sympathetic to our cause, and they possess an armory of one of a kind, indestructible weapons, then this may well be the last trip we ever take."

Silence reigned inside the bomber as Logan's words sunk in.

"Do you have a plan, Captain?" Namor asked, his voice knifing through the still air. "What is your strategy for convincing this Black Panther to join us?"

"Actually...I have no__plan," confessed Steve, with an uncharacteristicly sheepish grin on his face.

"What?" exclaimed James, thunderstruck. "We're flying into one of the most dangerous__places in the world and you don't have any__kind of a plan?"

Steve put his hand on his friend's shoulder, "We're not attacking__Wakanda, James. This is essentially a diplomatic__mission. Yes, this is a dangerous situation, but our enemies are the Nazis, not the Wakandans. If we present our case to the Panther in a civilized, honest, straightforward manner, then surely__we can come to some sort of a mutually beneficial agreement...right?"

Namor shook his head disdainfully, "Clearly, Rogers, this is your first foray into the world of politics."

Steve was about to ask what the Atlantean King meant, but was interrupted by the pilot, "We are entering Wakandan airspace...now."

Despite themselves, the Invaders packed against the several small windows in the bay. They didn't know what they expected to see, but they were somewhat disappointed that the same savannah stretched out before them as always. Maybe now it boasted a few more trees and rocks than previously, but it still wasn't much to look at.

"...Well, we're good so far," James said with a sigh of relief. "Maybe these Wakandans are all hype. ...Where__are we going now?"

Steve answered without taking his eyes from the window, "Since there are no maps of Wakanda, I instructed the pilot to just keep flying until he sees a village. He'll drop us off outside the village and we'll make contact on our own. We'll seem less threatening that wa-"

Suddenly the bomber was rocked by a massive explosion. The Invaders were tossed from their feet as the aircraft began to list to the right, its engines emitting a high pitched buzzing sound that couldn't have indicated anything good. Fighting back panic, the team struggled to hold on to anything that offered a good handhold.

"Pilot, what's our status?" Steve called out, trying to make his way back to the cockpit.

"We're going down, Captain!" the pilot replied, his voice hoarse with fear. "I don't know what hit us, sir! I didn't see a thing!"

"Can you get us down alive, soldier?" asked Steve, gripping the door.

"I-I don't know!" the pilot admitted, sweating as he tried to level the plane. "I'm doing the best I can but...aaagh!"

The B-25 was dead in the air, spinning rapidly as it dropped out of the sky at an alarming rate. Smoke poured from its propeller engines as the occupants inside braced for impact. In a desperate move, the Sub-Mariner burst through the bomb bay doors and began to fly adjacent the craft, matching its speed. While the wind outside muffled his voice too much to communicate with his teammates, he could clearly see that whatever had hit them had torn the left wing almost all the way off. If they could not slow the plane down to a somewhat acceptable speed, the Invaders were dead.

Speeding to the front of the plane, Namor hurled himself against it, beating his wings furiously in an effort to slow them down as much as possible. But he could already see that he was too late. There was little he could do to halt their descent, and as he was about to plummet to the ground with the bomber right behind him, Namor gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, bracing for impact.

The crater they left behind was almost a quarter mile long, and the speed at which they hit the ground left torn metal scraps all over the savannah. The death groans of their plane echoed across the countryside, wiping out the screams of its passengers as their world dissolved into an incomprehensible shaking, shattering, twisting nightmare.

After some time had passed, and the last noises from the wreck had ceased, Steve Rogers picked himself up from the wreckage, groaning painfully as he tossed a steel beam off of himself. Making sure he hadn't broken any major bones, he lifted up the shield he'd used to protect himself (which hadn't even suffered a dent) to reveal James Barnes underneath, also mostly unharmed, thanks to the protective weapon.

Moaning as he stretched his aching limbs, James turned to his friend, "Thanks for the save, Steve...but what about the others?"

Anxiously, Captain America turned his head to examine the remains of their experimental plane. The wreckage trail was quite long, but he and James began their painful trek back to see if they could find their friends. It didn't take them long to find that half the cockpit had been shredded to pieces and torn from the main body of the B-25...along with most of the pilot.

"Don't look, James," said Steve, turning away himself. "It's not a pretty picture."

But James was occupied elsewhere, "Steve, look! I found Logan, but he's...ugh..."

Steve turned to follow his friend, and was met with a grisly sight. Logan's body lay sprawled out on a pile of rubble, with a twisted metal beam spiked straight through his torso. Blood soaked the man from head to toe as the friends tried to get over the fact that surely their teammate was dead.

Suddenly, they heard a groan from their friend, "Ugh...a little assistance...please..."

Steve's eyes widened in shock, "Logan, you're alive! But...no one could have survived that!"

"Healing factor...remember?" Logan reminded them, his face grimacing with pain. "Now please...help me."

Doing their best to ignore the gory details of their grisly task, Steve and James set to work freeing their friend. They didn't know what they'd thought a 'healing factor' would have been like, but it certainly wasn't pretty, or painless. As soon as they'd lifted Logan away from the beam, they could see his body immediately healing itself, as if it was stitching its muscles back together from the inside.

Steve caught himself staring at the ugly wound as Logan leaned heavily on his shoulder, "Do not worry...sempai. I should be...fine in an hour or two."

"That is gross," said James, utterly without tact as he openly gawked at Logan's disgusting wound.

"Keep your head in the game, Patriot," Steve said. "We still have to find Namor."

"What about whatever shot us down?" James said, following the Captain. "We could be in real danger."

"We have to focus on our teammate first," Steve decided, walking back to the front of the wreck. "If we are__in danger, we're none__of us in any condition to fight. Once we find our friend we can decide what to do next."

Namor was easy enough to locate. He was at the head of the crater under the largest pile of scrap metal. Logan was set down to rest while Steve and James labored to dig out the Atlantean, who had apparently been knocked completely unconscious, but had suffered no fatal wounds during the crash. Steve laid him down next to the still recovering samurai, and breathed a sigh of relief.

"He'll be fine in a little while," he said, breathing heavily. "God rest the pilot's soul, but thank goodness the rest of us are relatively safe."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that if I were you, Captain America," came a strong voice from behind the exhausted group. "For the King of Wakanda does not take kindly__to unannounced guests__in my__country."

Steve and James turned to see that they had been ambushed by a large group of very__well armed men, but they didn't look like any kind of soldiers that they'd ever seen before. Instead of the traditional camouflage and body armor they'd come to expect, these men were sporting animal hide skirts, body paint, and sandals. Instead of a fully loaded firearm, they each boasted large, diamond shaped shields decorated with hideous faces as well as immense quivers filled with a dozen spears each. Frankly, Steve didn't know what to make of them. The only one with any modern weaponry was one man in the back, holding what appeared to be an extremely sophisticated rocket launcher device. Steve could only assume that was the weapon that had shot them down.

But far__more interesting than the soldiers was the man leading them. Not especially tall, but extraordinarily__well built, and covered from head to foot in what appeared to be black body armor, the intimidating man seemed to radiate a presence that commanded__respect. An equally dark cape fluttered behind him in the dusty African breeze, and two cat like ears protruded from his uniform on the crown of his head. His gloved hands ended in long, razor sharp claws which sparkled in the sunlight. But most impressive of all was the spear he held. It was almost as tall as the man himself, made of a curious metal that Steve couldn't identify (which he assumed must be vibranium), and sported on both ends a long, wickedly curved blade. Steve had never seen anything like it.

"Greetings, Black Panther," said Captain America, taking to his knee as he bowed low. "We mean you no harm. We have come-"

"I know exactly why you are here," barked the King, angrily. "And that is why I will afford you the luxury of turning around and leaving...immediately!"

James found himself frozen with fear on the spot. There were at least two dozen spears pointing directly at them, and it was clear that this Black Panther person meant business. They had obviously bitten off more than they could chew. It was time for them to cut their losses and leave.

"Cap, maybe we should get outta here," James whispered, leaning close to his friend. "Ronin was right. This was a mistake."

But Steve refused to give up, "Sir, we have merely come to request an audience with-"

"You are illegal aliens trespassing in my country!" the Panther interrupted again. "By law you should already be dead. Now go!"

Steve stood up to his full height, "No," he boldly replied. "We didn't travel half way across the world to be turned away without even stating our case. We need your help, sire-"

But the Black Panther cut him off, once again, "Bind__the intruders!" he shouted, with a wave of his hand. "I want those three taken to the border camp with blindfolds on; but take the Captain to my jet."

"Hey now, wait a minute!" James exclaimed, reaching for the weapons he carried that he had unfortunately lost in the crash. "Cap, I-"

"Don't worry, Patriot!" Captain America replied as he was restrained and his vision was cut off by the blindfold. "Try not to struggle, we can't beat them now. I'll find__you!"

But Captain America's words seemed wasted on his panicking teammate, as they were being led in opposite directions. Though Steve was trying to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, he knew he was making the right call. They were lucky to have survived that crash at all. Namor and Logan would be useless if they got into a fight now, and in their current condition, there was no way__that Steve and James could defeat the forces arrayed against them, much less the Panther himself. No, it was better to go along with them for now and strike back when the time was right. After all, they were on a diplomatic mission, and Steve had a feeling that if the King had wanted them dead, he would have done it already.

Steve felt his shield being wrestled away from him as they finished tying his bindings. In a few more seconds, he was stumbling up a short stairway into what he assumed was another plane and he was shoved and further restrained to a chair inside. Though he had no intention of immediate escape, Steve attempted to test the cords which tied him. It was as he feared, he couldn't have escaped even if he wanted too.

Then he heard the sound of someone sitting down across from him, "So, if it isn't the famous Captain America. What shall I do with you?" said the familiar deep voice.

Despite his current situation, separated from his team and made completely helpless, Steve felt no fear, "How do you know who I am, Panther?"

"You show much courage in the face of adversity...Rogers," the King replied, making a point to emphasize what was supposed to be Steve's secret identity. "I know everything there is to know about the Invaders...as well as Project Rebirth."

"I don't understand," Steve confessed. "Did you have a spy at Rebirth as well?"

The Black Panther laughed, "Ha ha ha! You Americans, so convinced of your own superiority despite all evidence to the contrary. No, with the technology at our disposal, we have no need__of spies."

"What kind__of technology?" Steve asked, fearing some kind of secret doomsday weapon.

"Oh, no need to worry, Rogers. We have no intent of world domination, unlike those petty Germans you are so concerned with," the Panther replied, in an almost bored tone. "The satellites that we've developed constantly orbit the Earth from space, relaying signals to our Great Palace in Wakanda. We can monitor everything you Americans do, as well as any other nation in the world."

Steve was stunned, "You...you actually sent machines__into space? You can see and hear everything we do?"

The King continued, smugly, "And they are completely__undetectable, and far__beyond your capabilities to destroy. I'm afraid that's just one__of the perks gained from our technology being lifetimes__ahead of your own."

Steve was actually stunned silent. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. He'd heard the rumors surrounding the Wakandan's capabilities, but he'd never imagined anything like this. How was he supposed to convince a man who was in such__a superior position that he was in need of anything? Even if the Nazis succeeded, would they even pose a threat__to Wakanda? What was he going to do?

"I see that Erskine succeeded in constructing his weapon," the Black Panther continued, bringing Steve back to reality as he could hear his shield being picked up. "He was__a genius, after all. It is a great pity that he is no longer with us."

"You knew Professor Erskine?" Steve asked, shocked.

"He was one of the greatest minds of this, or any other, generation," the King answered, still looking over the shield. "Not only did he posses a genius that was truly inspired, but he was a man of great character, and was respected even here in Wakanda. He will be missed."

"Then we have something in common," Steve said, grasping for anything he could use to reason with the King. "Dr. Erskine was my mentor. He is responsible for everything my team and I hope to accomplish. Please__just hear what we have to say!"

Steve could hear the Panther pause before replying, "...This shield is a masterpiece. A truly unique work of art. The layer of vibranium that makes it indestructible was a gift__from Wakanda to Erskine for his service to our nation. He earned__that gift...but you__have not."

"What are you saying?" Steve asked, attempting to swallow the fear that threatened to engulf him.

"I know__what you are here for, Captain," said the Panther, calmly. "I know that your team of Invaders was created to battle the Nazi forces, and I know what a dire__threat they are. What's more, Dr. Erskine truly believed in you and your mission. He was a friend to Wakanda, and though our country is rich in many ways, we have never__been rich in friends."

"So I say to you, Steve Rogers," the Panther exclaimed, his voice rising. "Prove to me that you can earn__this shield, as Erskine did, and I will let you and your friends go free."

"I have already__paid the price of wearing this uniform and wielding that shield!" Steve shouted, straining against his bindings. "I have earned__the right to fight for my country!"

The King replied in an even voice, "Yes, you may have earned the right to fight for your country, but if you are to posses a Wakandan prize, you must earn it the Wakandan way. You are sentenced to undertake the Trials of the Panther God, the very test that I__had to endure to earn the mantle of the Black Panther. If you survive, you will have earned your weapon, as well as the lives and freedom of you and your friends."

Steve could see that this was the only way to salvage the situation, as impossible as it may be, "...What must I do?"

"See for yourself," the King said, using his claws to slice the ropes which held Steve and helping him rise. "Look out the window."

Leading him to the window and taking off his blindfold, Steve blinked several times before gazing out. Stretched out under him, going as far as he could see, was a vast, green jungle. Strange mists and clouds wafted in and out of the trees as large, astonishingly colorful birds took flight through the skies. He couldn't believe his eyes. Never in his entire life had he ever seen anything so dangerously beautiful.

"That...is the Jungle of Mists," the King said, reverently. "It is said that our patron deity, the Panther God, first created this__place upon the Earth, and that it is from here__that all life flows. Deep inside those trees lies the only place that one is able to commune__with the Panther God and it is there that you must journey so that you may speak__with him. But beware, Outlander, for he is a savage and merciless god who values the Law of the Jungle above all else. You will need your wits about you if you are to reach his temple in the center of the forest."

"And what about my friends?" Steve asked, matching his captor's strong tone without taking his eyes off the jungle below.

"No harm will come to them," the King promised. "They will be held in a safe place until you return. Now go."

With that, the Black Panther pressed the button that opened the door. As the fierce winds outside rushed into the jet, blowing his hair in his face, Steve had no time to resist while the King grabbed him, and in one fluid motion, tossed him out the door. The last thing he heard from Steve Rogers was his echoing shout as he once again closed the door behind him, leaving Captain America to plunge into the ground below.


	15. Chapter 15

The Age of Marvels: Chapter Fifteen

Captain America

and the

Invaders

Part Fifteen

_** During the darkest days of World War II, America stood united against the threat of the Nazi Germany war machine. Our Greatest Generation sacrificed everything in order to stem the forces of oppression from overrunning our very planet, led under the fearless banner of the greatest warrior of our time, Captain America. Inspired by his courageous example, and with the aid of his misfit band of Invaders, Captain America led the forces of freedom to victory, changing his world forever.**_

__October, 2000

New Jersey

The home of Mr. Barnes

"Wow, when crap went down with the Invaders, it went down hard!" Colonel Fury exclaimed, whistling as the old man in front of him continued his story.

"You can say that again," Mr. Barnes agreed. "Ten minutes into our first real mission and the entire team had been captured and separated. We were in a foreign country with no backup and no knowledge whatsoever of where we were being taken or of the people who were taking us there."

"Were you worried?" Fury asked.

"Are you kidding? I was terrified!" laughed Mr. Barnes. "Without Captain America around, we were a mess!"

"Well, what did you do?"

Barnes shrugged, "What could__we do? We had no choice but to trust that Steve could figure out some way to help us."

"The one thing I knew, though," the old man said, leaning forward and staring Fury in the eye. "Was that wherever he was, Steve was in a lot more trouble than we were."

May, 1944

The Jungle of Mists, Wakanda

The wind was rushing past him so fast that Steve Rogers couldn't even hear himself scream. He had just been pushed out of a plane flying low over the treetop canopy of the jungle, and he didn't even have time to blink before he began crashing through the branches of those trees with a speed that defied description. There was no time to think, only to react. He instinctively shielded his face with his arms as he shot through the growth. Branches and bones cracked and splintered with the impact of his body as he plummeted across the jungle.

Steve's world went dark and the wind was knocked out of him. He lacked the time to even see what he'd hit as it hadn't arrested his descent, just slowed him down a bit. His eyes were still closed as, for one blissful second, there was silence around him while he flew between the treetops and the open ground, until he smashed into the jungle floor, the impact rendering him completely unconscious. The only sounds came from the birds and animals fleeing the noise of his crash as Captain America's broken body lay bleeding in the underbrush.

There was no telling how long Steve had laid there by the time he finally opened his eyes, but it must have been several hours because when he made his first, tentative attempt to sit up, he could tell that the sun was already setting. Fighting the urge to panic, Steve tried to clear his head to allow for rational thought. The first thing they'd learned during their survival training in Project Rebirth was to find a safe place to spend the night, and if possible, some kind of weapon to defend himself with.

Unfortunately, when Steve tried to get up in an effort to find__those things, he discovered that he had been more seriously hurt than he thought. During his fall he had apparently busted several__ribs. It caused him considerable pain just to breathe, much less to move. What was more, his left arm hung limply by his side at an odd angle. It seemed to be broken in multiple places, and had to be mostly useless at that point.

"Well shoot," thought Steve, as he blankly stared down at his arm. "That's unlucky."

It was clear to Steve that he was in shock. The best thing to do was to keep breathing, and start preparing for nightfall. Ignoring the paralyzing pain coursing through his body, he scrambled to his feet and began looking around for some shelter, but there wasn't much to be found.

The jungle around him didn't offer much in the way of comfort. It was completely choked with dense foliage and undergrowth which obscured his vision to the point that he could only see a few feet ahead of him. Light was fading fast, and the canopy overhead made sure that even less light than normal came through for him to navigate with. And while Steve did his best to concentrate through his pain, the strange and often alarming sounds coming from the depths of the jungle did little to assuage his fears. Some noises seemed to echo eerily from tree to tree as if the beast that made them were miles away, while others appeared to be coming from just behind him. But regardless of where the sounds were coming from, Steve never managed to catch sight of any animals at all, and he couldn't decide whether that was a good or bad thing.

With time running out before nightfall, Steve eventually settled for climbing into the branches of a short tree. He reasoned that it would be difficult for any creature to sneak up on him from up there. He had also picked the tree for the unusually large leaves that grew from it, which he immediately began using to construct a makeshift sling for his arm. It wasn't much, but it was the best he could do in the failing light. As he gingerly moved his arm into the sling, he allowed himself a moment to reflect on how out of place he must look. Here he was, a caucasian man with blonde hair, decked out in a tattered, blood soaked, red white and blue uniform and a green leaf sling, sitting awkwardly in a tree in the middle of the Wakandan jungle. He was just a little kid from Brooklyn. How had he wound up there?

Unfortunately, Steve wasn't in for a relaxing evening. He had grown up in the city, and wasn't used to the utter pitch blackness that had descended upon the land at an alarming rate. There was no twilight in the jungle, just a deep darkness that seemed to settle into the depths of his heart, taking root like the twisted trees which surrounded him.

Night appeared to turn the jungle into an entirely different animal. Bushes and shrubs that permeated the landscape were constantly shuffling and twitching as all manner of creatures darted here and there. The darkness magnified the weird noises and emanations from deep within the trees. Steve found himself flinching at every little sound, hiding terrified in his tiny lookout, positive that every beast in the forest knew exactly where he must be.

Before long, hunger began to set in, which complicated matters even more. Steve hadn't eaten since the previous morning, and even if there was food to be found, he had little hope of locating it in the dark. His nervous demeanor and extreme fatigue compounded the problem, and he could feel a chill setting in as the surprisingly cool night air brushed up against his sweaty skin.

But Captain America had been trained for every scenario, and he knew that the first and best step for overcoming those problems was a calm mind. So to give himself something to do, he found a stout branch sprouting from the tree, snapped it off, and began sharpening it into a spear. The darkness meant that fashioning the spear was slow, meticulous work, but thanks to the knife that Steve had kept concealed in his boot, it gave him a task to focus on, which made getting through the long, featureless night possible.

However, despite his best efforts, thanks to his weakened and vulnerable state, Steve couldn't help but eventually fall asleep amidst the cruel and unforgivable embrace of the Jungle of Mists.

Steve finally awoke thanks to the throbbing pain in his shoulder and a creeping sense that something wasn't right. However, despite his long slumber, he felt just as exhausted as he had the previous evening, and so the few moments it took him to force his eyes open seemed to take forever; but the sight that waited for him jerked him instantly out of whatever stupor he found himself in.

Staring directly at him, only inches away, was a fully grown panther.

Steve froze, his breath caught in his throat, eyes now wide with fear. He managed one painful gulp of terror as he was stared down by the cool, collected menace that the great cat emanated. He could tell why the Wakandans worshiped the beast so. That thing was clearly the very embodiment of ferocity.

The panther took stock of Steve with an almost impassive savagery. Its perfectly maintained black coat seemed to reflect the sunlight with an almost magical sheen, barely hiding the taut, lean muscles underneath which strained against each other in anticipation of the coming meal. Its teeth, jutting from its open mouth, gave it a menace reserved only for the deadliest of killers, complimented by the enormous claws that were being continually flexed in and out of its paws with excitement. But what captivated its current prey the most was its vibrant green eyes, a testament to the irrepressible soul of the beast which no force on earth could ever hope to cage…those eyes that reflected something wild and primal and all but forgotten to mankind.

But Steve didn't have time to ponder these things, for with a speed that defied description, the mighty panther leaped to attack! Steve had absolutely no__time to react in the weakened state that had claimed his body, and the panther immediately knocked him right out of the tree.

Slamming into the ground with a force that stole the breath from his lungs, Steve flailed desperately with his one good arm in a futile effort to push the predator away, but the panther would have none of it. Relentlessly slashing with its great claws, it cut deep gashes into Captain America's already beaten form while at the same time it gnashed its teeth at him in an attempt to bite his neck. Steve knew without thinking that once the panther got a firm hold in this vulnerable area, it would all be over. No amount of super soldier serum would help when he was gushing blood through a severed jugular.

With a herculean effort, Steve kicked out with his legs, flipping himself and the cat upside down and violently throwing the feline away. Using the momentum from his move, he brought himself to his feet just as the panther also scrambled back up. Breathing heavily and bleeding from half a dozen wounds, his once proud costume ripped almost to tatters, Steve and the panther stared each other down.

As impossible as it sounded, it seemed that the two adversaries had gained an understanding of each other through their encounter. Steve now had an approximation of the great cat's strength, and terrified as he was, he knew that it could be__possible to survive the fight…but he had to be smart about it. At the same time, the panther could tell that this was no ordinary prey. There was something special__about this one. He would have to be cautious.

As the standoff continued, Steve blinked away the sweat that had trickled down into his eye. He tried not to grimace as his arm and ribs resonated with almost crippling pain. Any other man wouldn't be able to stand at all with the wounds he'd suffered. If he was going to walk away from this alive, he would need an edge. His gaze darted over to the tree he'd slept in. The crude spear he'd fashioned the night before was still there, sharpened from the straight, stout branch he'd managed to tear off of the trunk. If he could somehow reach the spear, he might__stand a chance.

But the panther's speed was unmatched. There was no way that Steve could beat the cat to the spear, and it would be futile to wait until the beast was distracted. Even now the panther appeared somehow aloof, and that calm, fierce concentration, engrained into it through instinct passed down by generations of hunters, couldn't be shaken now by anyone or anything. Steve was just going to have to make a break for it, and hope for the best.

Betraying no warning whatsoever, Steve feinted to the right. Tensing its muscles, the panther lunged at him, a savage roar escaping its jowls. Ignoring the pain, Steve dodged the panther's attack, doubling back and using the infinitesimal advantage provided by the feint to gain an extra few feet. He had almost reached the tree when he felt the cat lunge at him, landing squarely on his back, claws already digging into his muscles.

Steve cried out in agony as the panther's impact sent them both tumbling into the underbrush. Tangled in the jungle growth, Steve could only flail about blindly, doing his best to fend off the attacks of the cat, which were as fast as lightning. Paralyzing pain coursed through his body as his blood began to flow freely. He knew it was only a matter of a few moments before his luck ran out and the panther struck a killing blow. He had almost given up hope when his hand finally closed around a long, straight piece of wood. He'd found the spear!

Momentarily ignoring the damage to his body, Steve brought the blunt side of the spear crashing down on the panther's head. With a roar of dismay, the cat backed off, shaking his head in an effort to clear it. Steve used the opportunity to stumble to his feet, trembling with exhaustion. Blood dripped to the jungle floor as he adopted a defensive position, thrusting his spear forward with his one good arm, clearly demonstrating to the beast that he was ready and able to fight to the death despite his wounds.

Any other animal would have likely given up at that juncture, conceding that there were easier meals to be had. But the panther was angry now. It had invested too much in its meal to give up now. More to the point, its prey had hurt him, and it had been a long time since any denizen of the jungle had dared__to strike back against the mighty panther. Now this was personal.

Wasting no time, the cat leapt once again at Steve, but Captain America was ready this time. Whirling the spear around him, he once again brought it down on the panther's head while simultaneously dodging to the side. The cat's attack missed, and while it was still recovering, Steve gave it another blow with the spear, this time to the leg.

As Steve pressed his attack, he could see that the panther was showing signs of fatigue. Now it was fighting blindly, wildly, without the detached cunning that it had previously exhibited. It wasn't used to its prey fighting back with such determination. The human had gotten under its skin, and it was showing.

Meanwhile, Steve was focusing exclusively on the fight, betraying a nimble agility that kept him just out of reach of the beast's claws and fangs. His quick reflexes and movements, drilled into him at such length at Project Rebirth, was the only thing keeping him alive, despite the excruciating pain it was causing his body. Taking advantage of the openings in the panther's defenses, he kept jabbing at the cat with his spear, trying with all his might to ward off his attacker. But he knew that he couldn't keep up this frenzied pace for long, not with the condition he was in. If he could not deter the predator within the next few seconds, he was done for.

Fortunately, the wild panther had had enough. He had suffered a dozen serious bruises and scratches from the panicked human, and needed to retreat to tend to his wounds. It was obvious that he was in much better shape than Steve was, but no one meal was worth this much effort…even if it had__hurt its pride. With a low growl that came from somewhere deep within, the panther turned tail and vanished effortlessly into the all-consuming jungle.

Without even waiting to make sure that the cat had really gone, Steve let out an enormous sigh of relief and collapsed to the ground. Sweat and blood poured from his body and mixed into the dirt underneath him as he gasped for breath. His spear lay forgotten beside him while he stared up at the leafy canopy above, silently thanking God that he was still alive.

The first thing he would need to do was take a break to get his wits about him. He had to bandage his wounds and find some food if he was going to make it out of the jungle. …Of course, the second__thing he would need to do was get up off the nest of fire ants that he had just laid down on. Ouch!

For more Captain America and the Invaders, go to .com/site/clutterbob/


	16. Chapter 16

The Age of Marvels: Chapter Sixteen

Captain America

and the

Invaders

Part Sixteen

_**During the darkest days of World War II, America stood united against the threat of the Nazi Germany war machine. Our Greatest Generation sacrificed everything in order to stem the forces of oppression from overrunning our very planet, led under the fearless banner of the greatest warrior of our time, Captain America. Inspired by his courageous example, and with the aid of his misfit band of Invaders, Captain America led the forces of freedom to victory, changing his world forever.**_

October, 2000

New Jersey

The home of Mr. Barnes

"Of course, at the time we had no idea what Steve was going through in the jungle," confessed the old man, leaning back in his chair. "After all, we had enough to worry about on our own."

"What happened?" asked Colonel Fury, taking a second to check his watch; he couldn't believe that it was after midnight already.

"To be perfectly honest, we weren't really sure," Mr. Barnes replied, shrugging his shoulders. "All three of us were blindfolded, so we couldn't see anything. All we knew was that we were being loaded into some kind of truck, and shortly thereafter we were thrown into a cell. We still didn't know anything about the geography of Wakanda, but at least we could deduce that we weren't far from the border."

"That must have been a relief."

"Are you kidding?" Barnes laughed. "Logan was still healing from a massive wound in his stomach, and Namor was unconscious! What was there to be relieved about? Still, I suppose things could have been a lot worse."

May, 1944

Just inside the Wakandan border

James Barnes shifted uncomfortably in his shackles as he leaned against the wall of the prison cell. The room was stiflingly hot, and depressingly bare, with only one small window up near the ceiling bringing light in from outside, but he managed to keep his cool with the help of his Project Rebirth training. Now was not the time to freak out, it was the time to count his blessings. After all, he was still alive, and he supposed that amounted to something. Plus, the Wakandans had taken off his blindfold, so he could see again, which was somewhat comforting. What's more, all three Invaders had been placed in the same cell, which meant that he didn't have to add loneliness to his ever growing list of problems.

Of course, James reflected, he might wishhe was lonely after Namor woke up, as he noticed the Atlantean King begin to stir. While the Sub-Mariner awoke, James couldn't help but marvel at the might his friend possessed. The man had had a planefall on him, for pity's sake, and the worst he had suffered were a few scrapes and bruises and probably a mild concussion. Any other man would have been killed instantly. What a guy.

Naturally, his thoughts were cut short by Namor's first, humble utterance, "Where am I? Who daresto imprison the ruler of Atlantis?"

"Now settle down, big guy. We're kind of in a situation," replied James.

"Do not presume to condescend to me, airbreather," Namor snapped. "I will not be caged in here like an animal!"

That said, Namor rose to his feet and began straining against the handcuffs that bound him. With an expression of surprise on his face, he noticed that the cuffs still held, so he tried harder. After almost five minutes of struggling painfully against his bindings, he gave up, staring at his hands in astonishment.

"What manner of metal is this?" he asked with an air of impressed fear. "There is no substance on Earth that does not bend to my strength."

"These restraints are enhanced with vibranium," Logan spoke up from his isolated corner. "They absorb the impact of any force used against them, just like Captain America's shield. We cannot escape."

"The hell I can't!" Namor shouted, enraged at his own helplessness.

Fueled by anger, Namor used his ankle wings to flutter above the ground, before slamming himself as hard as he could into the bars at the front of the cell. The reverberations of his struggles echoed through the hall outside while he beat the bars again and again in his futile bid for freedom. But the bars did not break or bend, standing fast against Namor's onslaught, and the Atlantean was finally forced to concede defeat, sinking to the cold floor below.

"Feel better now, fish face?" James asked, rolling his eyes.

"I don't…understand…" admitted Namor, gasping for breath as he lay on the floor. Apparently the idea of defeat was a new concept for him.

"Save your strength, my friend," advised Logan, quietly. "We must accept our present situation for now, but I am sure that an opportunity will eventually present itself if we are patient."

"How can you be so sure?" asked Namor, from across the room.

"That is the way of things," Logan answered. "Our time here will come to a close soon. Do not forget, we have a teammate who even now fights for us outside, and I myself have almost fully recovered from my injuries. There is yet hope for us."

"Yeah, Steve won't give up," agreed James, confidently. "He's never let me down before."

"Silence!" Namor exclaimed, his voice rising with passion while he continued to stare down at the featureless, gray floor. "You are a fool, Barnes, for allowing yourself to become dependent upon another's power!"

"And you!" he continued, glaring at the samurai. "How do we even know we can trustyou? We don't know your real name, we don't know where you're really from! How do we know where your loyalties lie? For all we know, this was your plan all along!"

Logan, his once elegant robes now reduced to rags, met Namor's accusing stare evenly, his soft, gravelly voice losing none of its force despite his polite tone, "My past is my business Atlantean, and no one else's. But I assure you that I have sacrificed as much as any of you in order to fight the common threats that have brought us together. I believe in what we are trying to accomplish, and I will fight to the death for what I believe in."

Namor sneered contemptuously at his teammate, "Your pretty words fall on deaf ears, worm. If you cannot trust us as peers and comrades-in-arms, how can we be expected to trust you with our lives in the heat of battle?"

"Namor, don't…" James tried to interject.

"No Patriot," said Logan, cutting James off. "Our friend has a point. I have not been as forthcoming with you all as I should have been."

"However," Logan said, staring Namor down unflinchingly. "I have nothing to prove to one such as you, for I have already borne witness to the unrelenting horrors of war. I have freely given all that I am to uphold the principals that are important to me, and I have reaped in full the terrible consequences of my actions."

September 23, 1877

Just outside Kagoshima, Japan

Logan let out a bestial roar of pure rage as he leaped through the air, katana blade raised high above his head in an unmistakable gesture of defiance. The half dozen Imperial soldiers below didn't stand a chance. He was on them before they could even raise their muskets. Shouts of dismay and anguish tore through the early evening air just as Logan's sword shredded through their soft flesh. Unfortunately, so fierce was the battle that surrounded them, that the death cries of the men did little but add to the overwhelming sounds of others shouting, katanas clashing, and cannons firing. However, it made no difference to Logan, as he barely had time to stand up and ready his weapon for the next Imperial squad.

Sadly, this time the experienced samurai wasn't fast enough. His lightning reflexes, swift as they may be, were no match for Imperial muskets. He was mere feet from them when the firearms flashed lightning and roared thunder, thin clouds of smoke wafting from their barrels. He couldn't even hear his own torturous grunts of pain as the bullets buried themselves in his chest, their momentum tearing through the very marrow of his bones.

Of course, this too meant little to Captain Logan Oyama. The guns utterly failed to slow him down at all, and he was among the panic stricken men in an instant. Blood spurted across the sky, splattering against his once proud blue and gold kimono, now ripped to shreds from constant warfare, while the bodies of Logan's victims produced a final dull thud noise as they hit the ground.

Falling to one knee, the only sounds Logan could hear now was his heart beating in his ears and his own ragged breath. He ignored the disturbing sight of his own blood trickling from his body to the patchy grass of the earth below. He knew not what kind of strange force kept his body from succumbing to his many wounds. No matter what perils befell him, his flesh always seemed to stitch itself back together in no time. But even he had his limits…and they were fast approaching.

Trembling as he rose once again to his feet, Captain Logan Oyama took stock of the situation. His line had been almost completely annihilated. Only a handful of samurai remained of the hundreds he had led down the hill only minutes ago. If reinforcements didn't arrive soon, they were all dead. What was the General thinking? Was he even still alive?

But Logan's thoughts were cut short as yet another wave of troops charged him. Gritting his teeth and clearing his mind, he raised his sword to attack. As the troops closed the distance between them, Logan focused only on breathing. If this was to be his last battle, he would make sure it was a good one.

But the Imperial's advance was mercifully cut short. Just before they made contact Logan heard a deafening roar coming from the hill behind him. While the enemy lowered their weapons in astonishment, Logan turned to see hundredsof samurai charging down the slopes of Shiroyama, their battle cry washing over their foes in a wave of desperate determination.

Before Logan knew it, the samurai smashed into the front lines of the Imperial armies, driving them back with savagefury. The poorly trained, freshly recruited Imperial soldiers stood no chance against the experienced, elite rebel forces. These rebels were veterans of dozensof battles, each one a warrior elite and a master of the way of the samurai. They were not to be trifled with.

Logan could feel his spirits rising as he watched the samurai lines progress down the hill. They seemed to wash over and across the earthen barricades the Imperials had erected around themselves like an unstoppable tide which reshaped the sand upon the beach. And like the tides, they visited only pain and death upon their enemies, leaving their corpses scattered and piled atop each other. Logan could literally feelthe fear emanating from the Imperial troops who were now being forced back to the town below as they hid like cowards behind their guns. It was only a matter of time now before they turned tail once again and fled back to their fortifications within Kagoshima to lick their wounds. A wry smile crept across the warrior's face. The samurai may yet live to die another day.

Tragically, Logan's optimism was short lived. His hopes were smashed to ruins by the sound that now reached his ears, dominating all other noises upon the battlefield. It was the unmistakable blast of cannon fire.

The entire conflict seemed to hang suspended in air around him as the single cannon shot pierced the evening. Logan's heart stopped in his chest, his breath caught in his throat, and as his eyes widened with unbelieving terror, he could now see the five government warships floating in Kagoshima harbor. The battle had put the rebel forces just within range of their formidable cannons, and now they were making their presence known.

Suddenly a massive explosion rocked Logan back to his senses. The cannonball had plummeted to earth only a few yards from his position…with devastatingeffects. He could hear grown men's shrieks of agonized pain resonate from within the radius of the blast as a cloud of dust rose from the crater around the projectile. Huge chunks of gravel and dirt rocketed through the air, whizzing by Logan so close that he could feel the breeze of their passing. The victory that had seemed just within their grasp only moments ago had now slipped between their fingers. That vision had revealed itself to be only a transitory illusion, a convenient lie to lull them into a fleeting, false sense of security, and now the sad reality was crashing down around them.

The Meiji fleet had now opened fire in earnest. Dozens of shells shook the very ground beneath his feet as Logan turned and retreated back up the hillside. Countless explosions decimatedthe samurai forces while they scrambled for the limited cover of their mountaintop stronghold. Bodies, blood, and limbs flew across the battlefield, littering the ground until it was soaked crimson with their remains. Logan didn't even have time to be repulsed at the sight, or feel pity for his comrades. All that remained in his mind, forged as it was in the crucible of war, was the screaming panic demanding that he get out GET OUT _**GET OUT**_!

As he fled up the hill, his soul stricken with shrieking terror, he couldn't help but take in the horrifying scene that surrounded him. The Imperial military apparently harbored the same desperation as did the rebel forces, for they no longer seemed to care what price they paid for victory. There was no way for their ships to discern friend from foe at their great distance, not while they were interlocked in battle. Their cannon volleys were ripping apart their own ranks, ending the lives of hundreds of their own soldiers as they too beat a hasty retreat back to town. There would be no true victor of this war, not when the Imperials were willing to betray their own soldiers, condemning them to an early grave, in order to vanquish their foes. In its own way it was just as tragic as the fate that awaited the samurai rebels themselves…almost.

Logan stumbled through the cramped hallways of the underground rebel fortress, trying to keep himself together just long enough to reach his room. Blood still dripped from his open wounds which had yet to heal and his body still smelled like a corpse, barely concealed within the tattered remnants of his robes. But none of that mattered, because what dominated the hallway wasn't the barely conscious visage of the samurai captain, but the dozens of wounded and dying soldiers lining the floors of the makeshift base.

Logan didn't even have the strength to look at those pitiful men before him, but his eyes could not tear themselves away. Horrible, gaping wounds met his every glance. Organs hung out where they shouldn't and blood gushed in torrents from places where limbs had once been. Men who were barely in their thirties lay dying on the ground, men who should have had another thirty or forty years to look forward too…men whose best years had been taken from them by the Meiji government.

But it was impossible for Logan to focus on that now. It was impossible for him to focus on anything but getting to his room, and even that task was asking a lot. As he slammed the rickety wooden door to his chamber closed, his katana clattered to the floor beside him, all ceremony and respect for the weapon that had saved his life forgotten as the exhausted samurai collapsed next to his bed, retching waves of vomit to the wooden planks below.

The painful effects of his nausea were the only sounds in the room to be heard for the next ten minutes. Logan was no longer capable of dealing with the trauma of battle. The horrors of the war had finally caught up with him. After months of being strong for the army, for himself, and for the memory of his family, Logan finally broke down.

Suddenly everything that had happened seemed to rush to the forefront of his mind. The entire life that he had painstakingly built for himself had been systematically destroyed by the very government he had sworn to protect. The rebellion that he had spearheaded had slowly had the life crushed from it, resulting in the deaths of thousands of men who had put his faith in him. And tomorrow, no matter what he did, he would see the destruction of everything he loved, everything he fought for, and everything that was important to him. Tomorrow he would die.

Logan leaned back against his bed, wiping away the filth from his mouth as the finality of the situation ultimately hit him. Tomorrow he would die. There was no way around it. Not even his freakish abilities could possibly save him this time. He had seen the state the army was in. There had to be less that a hundred samurai who still drew breath. They must be outnumbered at least fifty to one. They had no guns, and they had no cannons. He didn't even know if General Saigo was still alive. What hope did they possibly have?

Logan grunted to himself as these thoughts crossed his mind. Would it even matter if they all died? The principals they upheld, that they fought and bled for, meant nothing anymore after all. The damage had already been done. The last fifty men in Japan who still valued honor, dignity, and respect were trapped up on this godforsaken hill, just waiting to die. And no one even cared. After all, what use was honor in the face of progress? What was the value of dignity when weighed against the value of cold, hard cash? And how could respect possibly hope to stand up to the unrelenting onslaught of modernity? These beliefs represented the old ways, and as such, they only served to momentarily slow down the march of progress. They were the ghosts of memories, easily discarded and quickly forgotten. The samurai were the last vestiges the people had left to fight for them. Emperor Meiji had made sure that anyone else who spoke out against him and his vision for the future had been silenced…and now it was their turn as well.

Logan's eyes welled up as his thoughts once again turned to the past. How had things come to this? He remembered like it was yesterday how he had first arrived in Japan, intent on running from his mistakes and having absolutely no idea what he was getting into. Japan had been totally different from what he'd expected. He had never experienced anything like it before. And unprepared as he was for the challenges this new culture presented, he would have been swallowed whole by it if he hadn't stumbled upon Yuriko Oyama.

He had first met her outside a bar in Tokyo. She had been set upon by a small band of especially rowdy patrons, and he had sprung to her rescue. Despite his insistence that he was fine, she had brought him to her home to recover from the ensuing fight. Her father, Lord Kenji Oyama, was overwhelmed with gratitude towards the outlander for saving his daughter, and when it became plain that Logan was wandering the country without a purpose, he practically begged him to stay with them in order to learn their ways and customs.

It was immediately apparent to Logan that the Oyamas were an extremely wealthy family. Lord Kenji held a position in what passed for the royal court of Japan, and also belonged to the class of Japanese warrior-monks, known as samurai. It was soon brought to Kenji's attention that Logan possessed many attributes of a warrior himself, and he soon began training as a samurai under Lord Oyama's excellent tutelage.

Meanwhile, Lady Yuriko and Logan quickly became the best of friends. Her life was filled with ceremony and protocol, and she grew bored with it easily. Logan, on the other hand, was rough and vigorous and full of life. He came from a very different background in a land far across the sea, and they learned much from each other. It was only a matter of time, then, until they began to fall in love.

Logan had been branded a gaijin (a stranger/outcast) upon arrival in Japan, but if Lord Oyama accepted him, then society was also forced to accept him as well. Moreover, Logan's skill with a sword quickly earned him the respect of his peers and word of his deeds as a samurai soon spread across the entire land. Logan had become something of a celebrity.

So when Logan and Yuriko voiced their intention to marry, their announcement was received with great joy by Lord Kenji. He proclaimed Logan to be his heir, and after the wedding, in due time, the new couple was blessed with a child, a boy whom Logan named Akihiro. And the new family, which finally felt complete, shared many happy years together.

For the first time in his life, Logan felt truly happy. He had attempted to run from the violence and turbulence of his past, but had instead found the strength to confront those issues and resolve them thanks to the teachings of the samurai. He had found that honor and respect not only benefitted those around him, but benefitted his own personal life. These were principals that not only defined one's relationships to others, but also one's relationship to oneself. Logan was taught that everyone makes mistakes, but if one was willing to learnfrom them, and continue striving to betteroneself, than that person was worthy of respect…even if that person was himself. And it was these teachings that finally led Logan to the tranquility of inner peace.

But that same inner peace was not to last long, for the decades that Logan spent in the embrace of his family also saw the rise of the Meiji government. The Canadian had adopted the traditions and ideology of the samurai, the elite warrior class who had policed Japan and upheld its traditions for untold generations. But Emperor Meiji and his growing number of followers viewed them as an aspect of their land's culture responsible for holding the country back.

Japan had been a largely isolationist culture for as long as anyone could remember. They were only a small island, after all. What use did they have for the strife and bloodshed exhibited by the rest of the world? So they closed themselves off and focused inwardly on their great society. But now the Emperor saw the rest of the world moving forward, equipped with great and terrible new technology and vast armies which shook the ground beneath them. If he did not move swiftly, his beloved country would be left behind in the ever shifting march of progress. His nation needed to be modernized…and the samurai stood directly in his way.

It would take years for the Emporer to gradually evolve the land into what he knew it could be. His was a stubborn people, and they would not change their ways lightly. The samurai class, which until recently had functioned as the monarchy's enforcers, spoke out against every single effort he made to produce change…but the power was in Meiji's hands, and it eventually became clear that the samurai were fighting a losing battle.

Heavy taxes were raised for the wealthy samurai families, eventually bleeding them completely dry and draining their resources. Slowly but surely their rights were stripped away for the 'public's safety'. It became harder and harder for them to have their voices heard during meetings of power. Eventually it became illegal for them to carry out their duties at all as public opinion slowly began to side more with the Emperor as every year passed, lured by the promises of shiny new inventions and increased economic might.

As time passed, things became even worsefor the samurai. Those who still professed to carry the title of samurai were branded as outcasts and vagabonds. Any resistance was met with arrest or worse. Many formerly proud warriors were never seen again after incidents of 'civil unrest'. If a samurai was seen carrying a blade of any kind it meant death upon sight, no questions asked.

A major blow was struck to the remaining samurai and their sympathizers when Emperor Meiji announced the creation of the Imperial Army, which accepted any Japanese male regardless of hometown, class, or financial standing. The lure of a steady job was irresistible to the destitute men of Japan, who valued three square meals a day far more than the dusty, outdated ideologies of the taboo samurai class. Many felt that while what was being done to the samurai was certainly unjust, at that point there was little they could afford to do about it. After all, why fight against the irresistible tides of time? Certainly not for the sake of mere principals!

It was at this point that things became violent. Riots began breaking out as formerly respected, wealthy samurai began physically protesting the Emperor's policies. They had had their lives completely uprooted simply because of what they believed in and for no other reason, and they would have no more of it. Sadly, with the might of the Emperor's enormous new army, these small demonstrations of discontent were immediately put down, and those rioters who dared to let their opinions be known were publicly executed. Many of the samurai families who were left near the big cities, including the Oyamas, were assaulted by Imperial forces and violently evicted from their homes.

It was in this way that Logan and his family were chased from their ancestral grounds by the might of the Imperial military. Logan was forced to watch as his mentor, Lord Kenji Oyama, dressed in full samurai warrior armor, stood in the doorway of his home alone against an armed company of Meiji soldiers. To his credit, he managed to slay a handful of men before he was brought down by concentrated musket fire while his great house burned around him. Logan couldn't help but weep bitter tears, wishing he could have been there for the man he had always thought of as a father, but someone had to escort Yuriko and Akihiro to safety, and that responsibility fell to him.

After leaving his wife and son at a safe, isolated location, Logan was forced to consider his next move. His family was now poverty stricken and destitute, his father had been unjustly slain, and he had been outlawed simply because of what he believed in after many years of selfless service to his adopted country. What the Meiji government was doing was wrong, and somebodyhad to stand up to them at some point. Logan knew just the man to talk too in order to make that happen.

Saigo Takamori was a legendamong the samurai. A respected veteran of over a dozen major battles, there was not another man in all of Japan who commanded more respect. He was an unparalleled master of the samurai, unequalled in both swordplay and wisdom. Logan had spoken with him several times back when he was still a member of the aristocracy, and he knew that this was a man that he could trust.

Ironically, Saigo had stood by the Emperor longer than most. He believed in Meiji's devotion to modernization and was only forced to forsake his loyalty when it became clear that the Emperor's methods were completely insane. No amount of reasoning or even pleading would deter the Emperor's cruel and unjust direction and in the end Saigo abandoned his post, claiming that the samurai would have their voices heard even if it meant open rebellion.

Unfortunately, that's just what happened. Logan joined up with Saigo just when the famed General was looking for captains to lead his burgeoning army into battle. The rebel forces were largely made up of former samurai that the new government had been unkind too, as well as their friends, families, and sympathizers who knew that if they were to stand up to the Emperor, now was certainly the time, with General Saigo leading the charge.

Despite the animosity that his troops felt towards the Emperor, Saigo maintained that the rebellion still hoped for a diplomatic solution to their problems, and as such, he stated that their goal was to march all the way to Tokyo to make their opinions known. With Logan serving as one of his right hand men, General Saigo and the large rebel army began their historic march.

Facing only minor skirmishes which were meant to test their strength and resolve, the samurai army made good time until they reached Kumamoto Castle. There, their progress was halted as the main bulk of the new Imperial army attempted to put an end to the much feared rebellion.

The battle quickly developed into a siege. The samurai, while outnumbered, proved to be vastly superior in battle against the poorly trained Imperial recruits, whose modern weaponry (brand new muskets which were freshly mass produced) proved much more inaccurate in the heat of battle than they'd hoped. The resulting Seige of Kumamoto Castle dragged on for months, resulting in formidable losses on both sides.

Logan saw many men go to their deaths in the long, protracted battle. Hope of reaching Tokyo grew slimmer by the week, but the resolve of the samurai would not be diminished. After all, they had gone too far to stop at that point.

The siege was eventually broken during the Battle of Tabaruzaka, where Saigo's forces were finally defeated. They suffered cataclysmiclosses which finally squashed any hope the rebellion may have had thanks to Imperial reinforcements which finally managed to surround them. The constant fighting lasted eight days and seven nights, but the samurai were eventually forced to flee, caught between the castle on one side and the new reinforcements on the other. Their numbers were decimatedduring their retreat, and reduced to only a few hundred troops where once there had been tens of thousands, Saigo was forced to retreat with his men all the way to the remote town of Kagoshima, where they occupied a few small buildings within the Shiroyama hillside, justout of range of enemy cannon fire.

Logan's bitter thoughts turned to the present as he sniffed away a tear. If only Saigo had been able to marshal his army sooner they might have stood a chance. The samurai rebellion had been almost crippled before it had even begun, for by the time of its formation the Imperial army had already grown too powerful. No amount of superior training or passion could deter a force of that size. All that was left to do now was to trust in their leader. If anyone could get them out of there, it was Saigo Takamori. Defeat just wasn't an option. Saigo didn't know howto die.

Feeling better, Logan looked up from the floor for the first time in quite a while. The smell of his own vomit did little to curb his newfound optimism. Realistically, there was probably little Saigo could do to pull victory out of this certain defeat…but he could at least make sure they didn't all die in vain. He would change the minds and hearts of the Japanese people. He would turn the tide of this conflict against the mad Emperor, and his dreams would return the country to the beliefs that had founded it and made it great. His voice would create a future that Logan's son could thrive in, a future that Logan could die gladly for. This was something that Saigo would accomplish without a doubt. He was the last man alive that Logan still had faith in.

His ears perked up as Logan heard the noise of someone sprinting down the hall. Raising his head, he caught sight of a thin, bloodsoaked man breathing heavily as he burst open the door, gasping for air as he attempted to deliver his message.

"Logan-sempai, Lord Takamori requests your presence in his private chambers."

Logan slowly staggered to his feet, "What does he want?" he asked, glancing around for his discarded sword.

The messenger looked Logan square in the face, "He is dying, sir."

For more Captain America and the Invaders go to the link on askanison1985's deviantart page.


	17. Chapter 17

The Age of Marvels: Chapter Seventeen

Captain America

and the

Invaders

Part Seventeen

_**During the darkest days of World War II, America stood united against the threat of the Nazi Germany war machine. Our Greatest Generation sacrificed everything in order to stem the forces of oppression from overrunning our very planet, led under the fearless banner of the greatest warrior of our time, Captain America. Inspired by his courageous example, and with the aid of his misfit band of Invaders, Captain America led the forces of freedom to victory, changing his world forever.**_

October, 2000

New Jersey

The home of Mr. Barnes

"Excuse me," Mr. Barnes said, suddenly interrupting his own story. "I have to go to the men's room. I haven't gone since before dinner."

As the old man went to take care of business, Colonel Fury took the opportunity to contemplate what he had just been told. He had known, of course, that Logan had lived for quite a while in Japan, and had been eventually deported for his political views, but he had had no idea what that had implicated.

Furthermore, according to the sketchy records he'd seen concerning the mysterious figure, Logan must have been far more fit than anyone had previously realized.

The information Fury's organization contained on Logan indicated that he was born in Canada sometime in the first decades of the 19th century. By the time the second world war rolled around, he should have been over a hundred years old. How was it that he was still able to keep up with the likes of Captain America at that age? Could it be that his infamous healing factor somehow delayed the effects of aging? This matter was definitely worth further investigation.

However, continued musing on the subject had to be postponed as Fury's host returned to his chair, "Whoo, the ol' bladder's not what it used to be, eh? Now, where was I?"

September 24, 1877

Just outside Kagoshima, Japan

Logan was thunderstruck. This couldn't be! Saigo Takamori…dying? Impossible! The man was a legend, a warrior without equal. He had single handedly united the disparate, outcast samurai of the land into a fighting force that the world had never before seen and carried them throughout the entire rebellion with little more than pure willpower! How could it be that he was dying?

"I…I don't…" Logan stammered, completely at a loss for words.

"Please sir, we must hurry. There is not much time," the messenger pleaded, clearly on the verge of panic himself.

Logan's fatigue was forgotten as he picked up his katana and without another thought followed the messenger back out into the charnel house that the rest of the base had become. But the bodies of the dead and dying no longer held any concern for the lone samurai, the only thing that occupied his mind was his mentor and the condition that he was in. Before he knew it he had arrived at the commander's private quarters and slammed open the door in his haste.

The sight that met his eyes would haunt his dreams for a lifetime. There, lying on the floor atop a bloodstained cot, was Lord Saigo. His eyes were closed, and he was bleeding heavily from countless wounds, the most serious of which appeared to be to his legs and stomach. Several attendants were valiantly trying to keep their general alive, but it was clear that they were fighting a losing battle. Saigo Takamori, the founder, leader, and inspiration of the samurai rebellion, was dying, his lifeblood draining away before Logan's very eyes. It would be only a matter of time now.

Logan found himself blinking back tears as he stared at the last man who still offered him any semblance of hope. This was it, then. The samurai were doomed. Any hope of salvation for the warrior class, for the entire country__even, would die with this man. The people would continue to be led like sheep towards a dismal, colorless future without rights, without values, and without ethics by a madman they called Emperor. These beliefs were the victims of a new age, steamrolled into submission by the relentless machines of modernization. What was he to do now?

It was while Logan was still staring that Saigo began coughing violently, flecks of blood spewing from his mouth; his attendants tried to calm him, but he shooed them away with a dismissive wave of his hand, "Go, go. I will not die this way, pampered like a babe still clinging to his mother's breast. Please, tend to others who can still benefit from your aid. I have things to do before I leave this world."

The assistants hesitated, still hovering over his filthy cot, not willing to leave their general's side in his hour of need.

"Go!" Saigo shouted, once again channeling the passion that had compelled so many to follow him on his revolutionary quest to Tokyo.

Unfortunately, this outburst (while successful in ridding the room of his aides) triggered another bout of intense coughing which lasted for several minutes. It was quite some time before Lord Takamori could address his guest again.

"Please Logan, sit down. You are just the man I wanted to see."

Logan gingerly sat on the edge of the cot, placing a worried hand on his mentor's shoulder, "How do you feel, sempai?"

"Oh, I've felt better," Saigo confessed, with a smile. "But it is not me that I have called you here to discuss."

"I…I don't understand, sir," Logan stammered, confused.

Saigo leaned in towards his friend, speaking lower with a confidential tone, "You are very special, my friend," he said, knowingly. "I have been aware of your uniqueness since the very first day I met you, and it is what has made you one of my most valuable men. I__know of your secret, and your adopted father, Kenji Oyama, knew of it as well."

Logan's head fell in shame, "You speak of my…abilities, sempai? While it shames me that I have not safeguarded this knowledge from you, as I thought I had, it does not surprise me that you are aware of them, in your wisdom. Yes, my body heals unnaturally quickly from any wound, and my acute senses seem to make me aware of many things that others do not know. I…I have neither any explanation, nor any excuses for these…unnatural abnormalities. I apologize for hiding the truth from you, honored sempai."

As Logan felt the familiar shame of what he was welling up inside him again, and decided it was best not to share what was probably his most noticeable ability, he felt Saigo's shaky, weak grasp on his arm, "No, Logan-san. It is not your physical attributes that I speak of, for your true strength comes from the convictions of your heart. Never have I beheld a man who has suffered from such pain as you have, and then watched him rise above it and thrive in a new, unknown world. You are afraid of no man, and much more importantly, you have no fear of the sacrifices that must be made in order to stay true to oneself. You fight for the future of Japan, a future you can be proud to have supported, a future that offers your family only the best, and you are willing to suffer and bleed to make that future a reality. It is the strength of your character that both Kenji and I have learned to appreciate so much, Logan. Not the strength of your arms."

Now the tears were flowing freely down Logan's battle-scarred face as he held the shivering body of his fragile mentor. The only one in Japan who had ever known his secret was his wife, Yuriko. He had spent a lifetime carefully concealing any indication of his cursed abilities from the public at large. No one else must ever know of his curse, lest he bring shame down upon himself and his family. They already had enough problems dealing with the government. He did not want to be even more of a burden upon those he loved.

But now he was being told that he was not a burden. He was appreciated for who he was, despite his abilities. He could see now that his abnormalities meant less than nothing to his loved ones. It was who he was inside that counted, not what he could do physically. How was it that only now, when he was about to lose everything, that he finally realized that truth?

"You are loved, Logan-san," whispered Saigo, embracing his friend in a hug from his cot.

A warm, comforting silence, the likes of which either man had not experienced for far too long during the nightmarish rigors of war, filled the room. The only sounds that could be heard were Logan's sniffling as he tried to wipe away his tears, and the occasional wretched hacking of his friend as he bled out from his wounds.

After a time, Saigo once again spoke in a withered, raspy voice, "Now Logan, you're the only one who can assist me with this final task. Would you please help an old man to his knees?"

Puzzled, Logan did as he was asked, slowly and painfully helping Saigo up and holding him there.

"Now, would you mind pointing me to the window? My eyesight seems to be failing, but if I could just see the night sky once more, it would so soothe this soul of mine."

"Please don't speak that way, sempai," Logan pleaded, helping to turn his master so that he was looking out the window.

Lord Saigo was quiet for a while, as he sat in a tranquil stance upon his knees, ignoring his grievous wounds while he simply stared out the window, a calm smile on his face, "Now Logan, if you could hand me my katana, I would be most grateful."

A shadow passed across Logan's face, "No general, please don't ask me to do that. Your men still need you! I__still need you!"

Saigo remained sitting, calmly staring out the window, "I am sorry, my friend, but my time has come. Here, now, I am no general, and I am no Lord. I am simply me, Saigo, who loves his family, his friends…and his country above all else. And while I do not have the power to change my country, or possibly to change my fellow man, I do__have the power to live and die as I will. Please, don't take that away from me, Logan."

Tears threatened to overwhelm him again as Logan slowly, with trembling hands, handed his mentor the sword. Gasping for breath but still radiating an air of serenity, Saigo gripped its handle with a shaking hand. Realizing he did not possess the strength for it, Logan dutifully assisted his mentor in holding the blade in place above his stomach, but gasping for air himself, realized that he did not have the fortitude to commit to the actual deathblow.

Saigo's eyes, unblinking, continued to stare out the window, focusing on the stars overhead, "I go now to join my ancestors, Logan-san," he said in a barely audible whisper. "It now falls to you to lead what men of mine that remain. Remind them that living__as a samurai is just as important as dying__as a samurai, and that our sacrifice may well serve as an example for future generations of what we stood for. Give them the courage__to do what must be done, Logan. And please…don't forget me."

"I won't, sempai," were the only last words Logan could manage to say to his master, so choked with emotion was he.

"You will be our legacy, Logan," the samurai whispered.

Then, after saying a silent, private prayer, Saigo Takamori committed seppuku. The Lord of the Samurai was dead, and Logan was left weeping alone in the moonlight.

Dawn saw Logan standing proudly in the main entranceway of the rebel samurai stronghold. The night had passed, and the time for tears was over. Lord Saigo Takamori was dead…and soon his dream of a country renewed by the bonds of honor and respect would also die. But now was not the time to dwell on these things. This was their__moment. The final battle of the samurai was at hand.

With fresh bandages binding his mostly healed wounds and a ragged cloak flapping in the morning breeze, protecting him as his tattered kimono no longer could, Logan could see the entire valley spread out before him in all of its tragic splendor.

The tall hill of Shiroyama, upon which they had taken refuge, dominated the countryside overlooking the port town of Kagoshima. Normally it was a tranquil place, always bustling with activity as the townsfolk saw to the business of maintaining the docks, which was their livelihood. Now however, things had changed. The grassy fields which stretched between the town and the hill had been dug up with trenches and walls, which the Imperials had built in order to cut off any escape attempt the rebels might make. Thousands of bodies littered the space between the two destinations, as both samurai and Imperial corpses stained the earth crimson with their blood. Logan couldn't help but shake his head sadly. Those samurai who had given their lives had fought with courage and honor against overwhelming odds, but their deaths were made no less sorrowful by their sacrifice. On the other hand, most of the Imperial losses had been mere boys, freshly recruited into a war that they did not fully understand. Despite their misguided actions, they had still had their entire lives ahead of them. They deserved a better fate.

Unfortunately, the Meiji soldiers had done their job too well. The only route still available to the rebels was straight down the mountain, which led directly into the bulk of the Imperial forces. Tall walls and deep ditches had been carved into the land to ensure that this was their only option. Logan could already see tens of thousands of soldiers gathered at the base of the slope…waiting for what they knew was the last gasp of defiance from their elusive enemies.

Behind them, Kagoshima town lay silent as the grave. Not a soul was moving in the hamlet that seemed to be holding its breath for what came next. In the harbor, floating ominously, were the five Meiji warships that had so decimated their troops the previous day. Each and every one of their cannons was aimed straight towards the samurai. A bitter smile crossed Logan's face, for he knew that his remaining forces would not even survive long enough to get within range of their cannons. How ironic that the last survivors of the celebrated samurai tradition would die here, in this tiny, oft-forgotten region of Japan. But death was what one made of it…and they would ensure that theirs became the stuff of legend.

Behind Logan, sheltered within the shadows of their hideout, stood the last fifty samurai who still drew breath. Of all the thousands who had flocked to Saigo's banner, only these brave few remained. They were a hardened bunch who had seen too much, and each and every one knew with absolute certainty that this was to be their last day on Earth. But they met their destiny with courage and honor. They had spent their lives fighting to uphold a noble ideal, and they were more than willing to lay down those lives in the same manner. Truly, these men were samurai.

Without uttering a single word, Logan raised his sword high into the air. The bright, new morning sunlight which glinted off the blade looked to the assembled Imperial force below as if a star had alighted atop the hillside, blinding them with its brilliance. To the samurai, it was a symbol of the end.

As one, the fifty rebel warriors drew their katanas and charged down the hillside, the dust from their pounding feet rising in a cloud behind them. Logan gritted his teeth and narrowed his eyes as he watched the first company of Meiji soldiers advance, crouching in the middle of the road to load their weapons. Logan grinned cruelly. Stupid, untrained kids, they should have known better than to put their trust in a government who would sacrifice fresh soldiers that should have already been prepared for the battle. But their lives would end very soon.

Before the Imperials were prepared, the samurai were on them like lightning. Screams pierced the morning sky as blades flashed and muskets were fired. Bodies hit the ground and the skirmish ended in a flash. Before he knew it, Logan had broken through the first line, his comrades right behind him, as they rushed to meet the next company of Imperials charging to meet them.

This time the two lines met like mighty waves crashing against each other. Shots fired and bayonets clashed against swords. The air was thick with screams and shouts of fury. Logan grunted as he felt something slice deep into the flesh on his side. Reacting on instinct, he cut down the unseen enemy next to him just as he felt another laceration on his arm. He could feel himself losing control as his vision went red with blood. He experienced a primal, animalistic rage boiling inside him as he received blow after blow from the waves of enemies pressing against his body. The thought raced through his mind that maybe he should be using _**those **_to fight instead of his katana, but then his samurai training resurfaced and he realized that using them__would not change the outcome of the battle. He had managed to live an entire lifetime in Japan without relying on his unique, cursed, one-of-a-kind weapons, and he would not start now. He had lived as a samurai, and he would die as a samurai.

Next thing Logan knew, the Imperials had gone. They had all been cut down. Barely a dozen samurai remained, each one looking just as exhausted and wounded as Logan himself. Looking up, he could see that they had only made it about halfway down the hill. Masses of Meiji still stood facing them, their expressions stony with distaste. They knew full well what was about to happen. This wasn't a battle, it was a massacre.

It was then that Logan's eyes widened with terror as he discovered why the Imperials had fallen back. He saw their ranks part as three large gatling guns were wheeled out into the road. There was nowhere else to go, for the Meiji had obstructed all other routes off the hill. All they could do was charge straight down the barrel of those guns. The Imperials could have killed them by luring them within range of the waiting ship's cannons, or they could have simply charged at them with another company of troops, but the Meiji wanted to show the last samurai that they didn't have to trick them or waste men fighting against them hand to hand…they could simply mow them down where they stood, killing them any way they saw fit.

This was the end. Logan knew it. But as he stared down the barrels of those gatling guns, he couldn't keep his feet from moving. He couldn't keep his hands from raising his sword above his head, and he couldn't keep himself from charging, one last time, in one last desperate act of defiance, towards his hated enemies.

As pure, unadulterated terror enveloped his heart, he experienced the next few seconds as if it were a dream that was happening to someone else. He saw himself bellow a great roar of fury, and charge with all his might at the guns, despite the damage that had been inflicted against him and even the bayonet which still protruded from his back. He could hear the muffled bellows of his fellow samurai as they followed his lead, ready to die for their beliefs.

And die they did.

Logan watched the barrels of the gatling guns begin to rotate. He could hear each individual blast echo from the terrible machines as if in slow motion. He could practically see the bullets flying through the air, heading straight for their targets in his dreamlike state.

As each projectile left its chamber, he experienced another flashback of his time in blessed Japan. He remembered his beloved Yuriko's smile. The first time they kissed on the grounds outside her room. He remembered their wedding, and how indescribably beautiful she had looked. He recalled the birth of their son, and how he had smelled the first time Logan had picked him up. He thought of the first time they had gone to see the cherry blossoms in the spring, and his son's high pitched, delighted laughter as his grandfather, Kenji, had thrown him up in the air, only to catch him an instant later. But mostly, for some reason, the memory that stuck in Logan's mind the most was kissing his son goodnight and then laying in bed beside his wife, stroking her cheek softly. His last thought before falling asleep that night had been of how extraordinarily fortunate he was to be able to spend his life among the people he loved.

Then he was jolted back to reality by the bullet that ripped through his stomach. This was no longer a dream, it was happening now, to him. Five more bullets pierced his side and chest as he slumped down to the ground, blood already pouring from his body. He struggled for breath, gasping and wheezing while he could hear his last remaining friends being gunned down behind him, powerless to do anything to stop it.

With a mighty bellow of rage, Logan picked himself up, katana at the ready, and ran another few steps towards the blazing gatlings, only to be met with another round of gunfire tearing through his body as if it were paper. Each gunshot felt like a hammer blow, knocking him clear off his feet and throwing him forcefully back to the ground.

He lay there, staring up at the deceptively peaceful blue sky, dotted with small white clouds, straining with all of his might to draw breath. He could hear the death rattles of his friends, perishing behind him. The only thing keeping Logan from the cold embrace of death was his bizarre healing ability. He could feel it struggling against the abuse his body had taken, but it was too little too late. Even he could tell that this would be his last stand…the last stand of the samurai.

Trembling with exertion, sweating blood from his eyes and pores, his flesh punctured by a dozen wounds and his bones shattered from the impact of so many rounds of bullets, Logan rose one final time from the road. Boasting only a tenuous grasp around his proud katana blade, he stumbled haltingly towards the waiting gatlings and the untold scores of Imperial troops still standing like unfeeling emotionless statues behind them.

Logan didn't know if anyone would ever realize or appreciate what the samurai had done that day. He didn't know whether anyone would ever remember the sacrifice of those mighty warriors. He didn't even have the strength to raise his arm in order to wield his katana. All he knew was that he could now die with honor. He had fought for what he believed in, and that, at least, was something to be proud of.

Logan couldn't even register the thunderous sound of the gatlings firing another round. He couldn't feel the bullets that once again tore right through him, throwing blood and flesh in a cloud around his broken frame. He didn't see the ground tilt at a crazy angle as his body fell backwards into the dirt. All he could see were the faces of his wife and son, smiling down at him where he lay. He would see them again one day. He would hold them in his arms when they met in the next world, and he would never ever__let them go.

His last thought was of how much he loved them…until that too was cut short as a bullet shattered his skull.

May, 1944

Just inside the Wakandan border

"And that is the story of the last samurai," said Logan, finally finishing his tale.

"But…if you died so long ago in Japan, how can you still be here?" James asked, puzzled.

Logan shrugged, "I can only attribute that to my healing factor," he answered. "I woke up a week later buried inside a mass grave, surrounded by the bodies of my people. I clawed my way to the surface and, in disguise, left Japan as soon as I could. Eventually I made my way back to Canada and I have lived every day upholding the traditions of my fallen brethren. I live now to honor the memory of the dead. I feel that spreading the legacy of the samurai is a fitting existence for one such as I."

"But what about your family?" asked James, concerned. "You just left them behind?"

A shadow passed over Logan's features, "I made contact with Yuriko just before I left the country. We both__decided that she and Akihiro would be much safer if they were to sever all ties to me. I still kept in contact with her when I could through encoded messages…but that was the last time I ever saw her or my son. We believed that it would be easier for him if he thought that I had died during the rebellion."

"Whatever happened to them?"

"…Yuriko died several years ago," Logan quietly replied. "She was 77 years old."

A silence settled over the prison cell. Logan's account had been difficult to hear, and they all had much to think about. The stillness was broken only by Namor, who moved over next to Logan and placed his hand on the other's shoulder.

"I am sorry to have questioned your loyalty, my friend," he said, sincerely. "And I am sorry for your loss."

"I did not share these things with you for your pity," Logan replied, in a respectful tone. "I confided in you two only so that you would know the truth of who I am. So that you would trust me as a brother in arms, just as I trust you."

"I fight this war with the strength of conviction and the passion that I fought the Imperials with so long ago," continued Logan. "As the last of the samurai, it is my honor and duty to do so. The Nazis must be stopped, and now I hope you understand the lengths I will undergo to see that happen."

"I am proud to fight alongside you, brother Logan!" Namor exclaimed, suddenly jovial.

"Me too," James said, smiling. "We'll get out of this somehow."

Suddenly, with a silence that was fairly unnerving, the doors to their cells swung open of their own accord. The three friends looked at each other quizzically before tentatively rising from the floor.

"See, what'd I tell__you?" quipped James, motioning to the newly opened door. "I should have tried saying something like that hours__ago!"


	18. Chapter 18

The Age of Marvels: Chapter Eighteen

Captain America

and the

Invaders

Part Eighteen

_**During the darkest days of World War II, America stood united against the threat of the Nazi Germany war machine. Our Greatest Generation sacrificed everything in order to stem the forces of oppression from overrunning our very planet, led under the fearless banner of the greatest warrior of our time, Captain America. Inspired by his courageous example, and with the aid of his misfit band of Invaders, Captain America led the forces of freedom to victory, changing his world forever.**_

October 2000

New Jersey

The home of Mr. Barnes

"Wow. That Logan could tell quite a story, couldn't he?" Colonel Fury asked, leaning back on the couch.

"Mm-hmm," nodded the old man. "I think that was the most I ever heard Logan talk. But we didn't have too much time left to think about it."

May, 1944

Just inside the Wakandan border

"The cell doors have been opened," Logan stated.

"All by themselves?" asked James, puzzled.

"It must be some of the advanced Wakandan technology we were briefed on," Logan replied, thinking out loud. "The question remains, what do we do about our new situation?"

"What is there to think about?" Namor snapped, approaching the open door and peering down the hallway. "We escape, now, while we have the chance."

"I am not so sure," Logan said, thoughtfully. "This is quite possibly the most advanced nation in the world, renowned for their intelligence and strength. I do not think that this was an accident."

"Yeah, this smells fishy to me," James agreed. "It could be a trap."

"Trap or not, I refuse to spend one more moment__locked away in this cell like some kind of common beast!" Namor exclaimed, stepping out into the hallway. "Let us be on our way, find Rogers, and then make our exit from this abominable__country."

"And how do you propose we accomplish these goals?" Logan asked, calmly. "Our hands are still bound in these unbreakable vibranium chains. How will we defend ourselves should we come under attack?"

"They may be unbreakable…but they ain't inescapable," said James, his handcuffs clattering to the floor.

Logan and Namor both stared at James, shocked, "How did you do__that?" the Atlantean king asked in bewilderment.

James shrugged nonchalantly as he held up a small pin, "You learn a thing or two about cuffs when you spend your childhood runnin' from the cops," he said as he began working his friend's cuffs with the pin. "I guess us airbreathers aren't half bad, huh your majesty?"

Namor ground his teeth together in anger as James released him from his bindings, "I suppose you can be…useful. Now let's go!"

As the Invaders ventured through the prison they found that all the other doors were tightly locked except those that led through the main hallway. Namor wanted to smash through the doors to find a quicker escape route, but Logan insisted that the sound of his fist smashing against the metal would cause too much of a ruckus, and they wanted to leave as quietly as possible. However, it didn't escape James' notice that there was only one path available to them. They were clearly being herded in one direction, and it gave him a very uneasy feeling. What would be waiting for them at the end of their sojourn?

He didn't have to wait long to find out. Before they knew it, the hall had emptied out into the bright African sunlight and sweltering heat. The three blinked as they took in their surroundings. They were now in a large open courtyard, with a hard concrete floor underneath and similar walls all around. The courtyard itself was otherwise featureless, except for the three women standing squarely in its center.

The women could have been identical triplets for all James could tell. Each one was bald, and was wearing shades so that their eyes could not be seen. Their faces sported dashes of red paint which was the closest thing to a personality that could be seen on their emotionless features.

Each wore what James assumed was traditional Wakandan warrior apparel, over which lay heavy brown body armor, of a type that James had never seen before. Decorative feathers stuck out from their shoulders and their boots reached almost up to their knees.

Completing their intimidating appearance, each one held a large, stout spear, with a wicked looking razor sharp blade at the top. The spear was also streaked with matching red paint as well. Upon taking all this in, the three heroes stood stock still in the doorway of the courtyard, none among them wishing to make the first move.

Ignoring Namor, who's hands had begun to ball into tight fists, Logan leaned over towards James, whispering quietly, "Patriot, I know these foes seem formidable, but have you seen what lies between us and them?"

Casting his gaze to the ground, James' eyes widened in surprise. Laying in two neat piles directly before the warrior women were Patriot's and the Samurai's weapons. James' weapons took a bit more space than Logan's ornately decorated katana blade, being as his pile consisted of grenades, knives, pistols and assorted handguns, a rifle, and other oddities, but there they were, in all their explodey glory.

"Wait, why would they do that?" James asked, his mind working furiously. "What's the point of letting us escape and then bringing us our weapons like this?"

Logan murmured even quieter, "They are challenging__us, my friend. We must be cautious. This is a dangerou-, Namor don't!"

But the King of Atlantis was done sneaking around. He had wanted a fair fight with the Wakandans ever since they'd crash landed in their country, and he would have one regardless of what his teammates wished. Without skipping a beat Logan and James were on his tail. Better to back up their friend now in a hastily ill conceived battle together than wait for their most powerful member to be defeated while they took their time on the sidelines.

"Imperius Rex!" bellowed Namor in fury as he took off, flying at the rightmost warrior in a blind rage.

But if the Wakandan was impressed, she didn't show it. With a grace that looked far too easy, she deftly dodged around Namor's wild attack, almost sending him crashing into the concrete wall behind her. James' attention was diverted from his own foe while he marveled at the speed and agility of the warrior. These women were clearly well trained, and not to be taken lightly.

"Wow!" James exclaimed, obviously impressed. "These girls know their stuff! Are we gonna be okay, Samurai?"

"Keep your mind on the battle at hand, Patriot!" Logan replied, approaching his own adversary. "Sub-Mariner can handle himself."

If it hadn't been for Logan's hastily shouted warning, James might have been sliced in half right then. With an effeminate yelp that belied his extensive training, the Patriot barely managed to dodge a lightning fast swipe from one of the women's spears. James desperately attempted to put some distance between himself and his adversary, instantly realizing that he was at a pronounced disadvantage. He was completely unarmed against an opponent who was not__to be underestimated, and if he was going to have a chance__of survival, he was going to have to go through the woman to get to his weapons, and since that was never going to happen, James decided to go around__her instead.

Gathering up all the strength he could, James waited until just the right moment, and then took a flying leap over the Wakandan's head. Taking the woman completely by surprise, he managed to reach his pile of weapons and retrieve a large gun and a small knife. Unfortunately, the woman was on him again before he could properly equip them, and he was forced back on the defensive.

"This isn't going well!" James shrieked, firing off a few rounds of his gun in a panic as he began running pell-mell away from his enemy. "Eeeeekkk!"

Yes, James had managed to reach his weapons, but the African woman was practically right on top of him, and while he hadn't had time to bring his knife to bear, his rifle was unfortunately a long range weapon. He had no chance to target the warrior while she was so close. The American wasn't sure how exactly he'd gotten into that situation, but the battle had somehow degenerated into him screaming and running around in circles while the warrior woman chased him and muttered what he could only assume were African curses.

Logan wished he could help his friend, but he had his hands full where he was. Using a lightning fast grace that he had carefully cultivated from decades of training, he was nimbly dodging every strike that his female adversary threw at him, but he could tell that he couldn't keep it up for long. If he didn't think of something fast, he would be in a lot of trouble.

Of course, he had considered retrieving his katana, but then he realized that the woman's spear was probably constructed out of vibranium, and if he attempted to cross blades with her, her spear would doubtless slice right through his treasured weapon, leaving him in even more dire straights than where he already was. No, the best course of action would be to find a different solution to his problem…but what could he do?

"Who are you?" asked the Samurai, dodging yet another blow. "What is your purpose in attacking us?"

But the African warrior did not respond, maintaining her stony silence while delivering another vicious strike. Logan grunted in pain as he moved just a hair too slowly and her spear sliced through his shoulder. Why would the women not speak? And how were they going to get out of this?

"Damn you, woman! Hold still so I can crush you!" Namor bellowed in fury, swinging with a strength that defied description and missing his opponent entirely.

So far Namor had failed to land even a single blow to his adversary, whose superior agility allowed her to apparently dodge even his most powerful strikes effortlessly. However, she had rained numerous blows on him, and her wickedly sharp vibranium weapon made sure that they hurt…even despite the Atlantean's limited invulnerability and strength. The Atlantean King was being slowly worn down. His only choice would be to end the battle quickly.

Of course, Namor's situation wasn't nearly as bad as the one that Patriot found himself in. Shockingly, he had found that running randomly in circles was not enough to defeat the elite Wakandan warrior who was now passionately cursing whilst pursuing him. He had tried to think of some kind of brilliant strategy, but despite his training, he found that the best he could do in his panicked state was to wildly flee.

Eventually though, James got ahold of himself. If this was his time to die, it was his time to die, but he wouldn't__do it while screaming like a little girl. There was only one thing to do, turn and directly confront his attacker while her guard was still down.

In a flash the Patriot had skidded to a stop, dropped his gun, and pulled out his knife. Before the Wakandan could react to this sudden turn of events, James had skillfully attacked her, using the short knife to swipe at her hands while grabbing her arm with his other hand. Using this leverage, James managed to grab the vibranium spear out of her grip in less than an instant. Remembering his training, he expertly whirled the spear above his head, twirling it next behind his back and finally bringing it to bear in front of him, pointing it straight at the astonished African warrior.

"That's right," James said, grinning. "It's on__now, baby."

The tide of the battle had turned.

Logan couldn't even spare the time to stop and check on how Patriot was doing. If anything, his opponent had begun attacking him with even more speed, and it was all he could do to avoid being sliced to ribbons. Shallow cuts had begun to appear all over his body, but his healing factor was having trouble keeping up with the damage the woman was inflicting on him. If he didn't do something immediately, he might not be able to recover before being stricken down.

In a move born completely from desperation, Logan gritted his teeth and stood utterly still. Taken by surprise with this sudden change of attitude, the Wakandan warrior plunged her spear straight into the Samurai's stomach before she could react. Logan screamed in pain, blood pouring from his wound as he coughed more from his mouth, but he never wavered for a second.

Nearly passing out from the pain, the Samurai reached out and firmly grasped the woman's hands, which were still around the shaft of her spear. The Wakandan had only a moment to glance at Logan, clearly confused, before the Samurai leaned back and slammed his head as hard as he could into her face, instantly knocking her out with one crushing blow.

Logan could feel that several bones in his face had shattered from the headbutt as he staggered backwards. Blood flowed freely from half a dozen serious wounds, but with his strength failing, he grasped the hilt of the spear and grunted in terrible pain as he pulled the length of it out of his stomach. Tossing it away, he collapsed on the ground in agony, his world lost in the unendurable pain he was in, but at least secure in the knowledge that he had defeated his foe in the process.

Namor roared in anger and frustration as he endured yet another cut, this time to his leg. How could he defeat someone he couldn't even touch? It was clear to him now that this fight could not be won by strength alone. He was going to have to employ some cunning and strategy. Gritting his teeth, he took a long, hard look at his enemy, who was swinging her spear again in preparation for another strike. Strategy was fine with him. He hadn't become King of Atlantis just because of his good looks and chiseled muscles, after all.

Before the Wakandan could deliver her next strike, Namor made to lunge at her. However, he feigned a stumble, as if he were tiring from the prolonged battle. Sensing an opportunity to deliver a fatal blow, the woman raised her spear to attack. At just that moment though, Namor flapped his ankle wings with an enormous burst of speed, which sent him spinning in a circle around the woman.

The Wakandan was caught completely off guard as Namor now found himself facing her from behind. Still completing is dizzying spin he raised his fist and, his strength enhanced by the speed of his momentum, smashed the woman down into the concrete so hard that it cracked the very floor itself, creating a crater where he had stood with the broken woman at its center.

Breathing hard, Namor looked up and took stock of the situation. Logan was barely conscious in the center of the courtyard, laying in a pool of his own blood next to the unconscious form of his own adversary. Across from him, James had his enemy at the point of his spear completely at his mercy. Her hands were raised in a gesture of surrender as the Atlantean made his way towards them.

"Who are you and why do you vex us so?" Namor asked in a voice that did not betray the fatigue he felt. "We demand to be released from here immediately."

The woman's face did not flinch at all, despite the fact that she was clearly beaten, "We are warriors of the Dora Milaje, the elite female bodyguard unit tasked with the protection of the Black Panther himself," she answered without fear.

"Well if you're the Panther's bodyguards, why are you here__attacking us?" James asked with a mixture of confusion and anger.

"The Panther King wished for us to test you in combat," the warrior admitted with a glance at her two fallen comrades. "You passed."

"The King of Atlantis does not appreciate being toyed with, woman," Namor growled, menacingly.

"This was hardly a game," answered the Dora Milaje. "If you failed the test, our orders were to escort you out of Wakanda…"

"Well that doesn't sound so bad," replied James, brightly.

"…In pieces," the warrior woman finished.

"Oh, well that sounds…unpleasant," James muttered.

"And were there instructions concerning us if we passed__the test?" asked Namor.

The Dora Milaje continued to look at them evenly, "You are to be given medical attention and taken to the royal palace. You are no longer our prisoners, but we ask that you respect our kindness and not again attempt to escape."

"Not try to escape!?" asked James, clearly angry. "You abducted__our friend, Captain America! Who knows__where he is or what you're doing to him. We have to rescue him!"

"Your leader has in his possession one of the finest weapons ever made, constructed of Wakandan__vibranium," the warrior replied, with an edge in her voice for the first time. "He is earning__his weapon in the traditional Wakandan manner."

"Is this a tradition that he can be expected to survive?" Namor asked, cautiously.

The woman shrugged, "That…is entirely up to him."

Steve Rogers had had better days. He had been walking through the jungle now for forty-two hours, was utterly lost, and had no idea how much further he had to go until he found the temple of the Panther God, but he had no choice except to continue on his way. Luckily, he had managed to find some food in the form of a large snake he had speared on the end of the pointy stick that served as his weapon, and he had succeeded in finally catching a few hours of sleep the previous evening. Though he was worn and tattered, he still had a job to do, and he would be damned if he was going to leave his friends and teammates imprisoned while he died in some godforsaken jungle.

These were the thoughts coursing through Steve's mind as he pushed aside the next bush and emerged into a small clearing. There he paused, his eyes locked on what lay ahead.

Only a few yards in front of him the jungle was shrouded in a dark mist. This cloud completely enshrouded the entire forest ahead and was so thick that Steve couldn't even see more than a foot through it. Regardless of the danger, Captain America felt no fear at the unnatural occurrence, and only considered turning back when pondering the practical dangers that awaited him. But he knew that the only way to reach his goal was forward, so he had no choice but to venture within the blinding fog that obstructed his path.

Devoid of hesitation, confident in his skills and his destiny, Captain America stepped into the mist, vanishing without a sound into the swirling void that seemed to have swallowed the jungle whole.

(For more Captain America and the Invaders, please visit askanison1985's profile at deviantart.)


	19. Chapter 19

The Age of Marvels: Chapter Nineteen

Captain America

and the

Invaders

Part Nineteen

_**During the darkest days of World War II, America stood united against the threat of the Nazi Germany war machine. Our Greatest Generation sacrificed everything in order to stem the forces of oppression from overrunning our very planet, led under the fearless banner of the greatest warrior of our time, Captain America. Inspired by his courageous example, and with the aid of his misfit band of Invaders, Captain America led the forces of freedom to victory, changing his world forever.**_

October 2000

New Jersey

The home of Mr. Barnes

"So…when the Wakandans imprisoned you, it had all been part of a big test?" Fury asked, puzzled.

The old man nodded from his seat, deeply entrenched within his chair, "Actually, that wasn't the half of it. Turns out our entire experience in Wakanda had all been one giant test. Usually when they had visitors the Wakandans were well within their rights to slaughter them in the interests of protecting their borders, but our team was a special case. They had to walk a fine line between maintaining their traditions and image, without antagonizing the Allied forces, while simultaneously achieving their objectives."

"Their objectives?"

Mr. Barnes stared Fury dead in his eyes, "Just remember that the Wakandans are not to be underestimated, Colonel."

May, 1944

The Jungle of Mists, Wakanda

Steve Rogers had only been traveling through the thick fog for a few minutes and he was already completely lost. But at least he knew how the jungle had gotten its name.

He had been roaming through the trees for several days before he had encountered the impenetrable mist that lay in his path. His goal was the temple of the Panther God, which was found in the jungle's epicenter. Unfortunately, in order to reach the temple, he had to first traverse this blinding fog. And with only a long, sharp stick to serve as a spear, Steve was feeling uncomfortably vulnerable.

Suddenly, Steve whirled around, his spear whipping through the air in front of him. He thought he had heard a faint noise, but as he cast his eyes feverishly through the dense gray fog, he couldn't pinpoint its source. Come to think of it, he couldn't even be sure that he had heard a noise at all. The mist must have been playing with his mind.

Steve relaxed, shaking his head in an effort to clear it. He had been stuck in the jungle for several days, with little food or water and even less sleep. He had to get a grip on himself. He had to stay focused. His friends and teammates were counting on him to get them out of there, and he couldn't let them down. He just had to man up and get through the fog as quickly as possible.

But Steve's trip was short lived. In just another few seconds he thought he heard another sound. Stopping on a dime and bringing his spear to bear, he looked around again, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. What was going on?

Steve continued to walk, now at a faster pace. As Captain America, he was not one to be rattled easily, but this damn cloud was obscuring his senses and confusing his sense of direction. If he could just find a way out of its clammy, gray embrace he could rest a little and get himself back together, but there was no escaping the mist, no matter how panicked or paranoid he might be feeling.

Now Steve was positive__he had heard something. It sounded like a faint voice travelling through the fog. Holding his spear tightly, trying to keep his hands from shaking, he raised his voice and shouted in the strongest tone he could through the gloom.

"Who are you? Identify yourself! I know you're out there!" he shouted, trying not to let his voice betray the cold fear he felt in his heart.

"…Son…"

Steve actually yelped as he jumped straight up in shock. The voice had come from a little distance behind him. It had been faint and airy, like a whisper of the wind. Yet, it was familiar somehow. But no, it was impossible! What the heck was going on?

"…Son…"

Steve couldn't believe what was happening, but he couldn't help himself, "…Dad? Is that you?"

"Yeah, it's me."

Steve narrowed his eyes, trying to get a better look through the mist. At first he could see nothing, just the same deep, inescapable gray, but soon a blurry figure began to appear. As it grew closer it started to take form, until before his eyes it had materialized into a clear image of his father!

Steve was dumbstruck as he was assaulted with the impossibility of the situation as well as with conflicting emotions he hadn't felt in years, "Dad…w-what are you doing__here?"

His dad lit a cigarette as he flicked the match to the ground, "What, ya ain't got time fer your old man anymore, boy?"

Steve knew these emotions all too well: guilt and shame, "I-I'm sorry, Dad. I guess I…I just figured that it wouldn't mean that much to you."

"Wouldn't mean that much to me!?" shouted Steve's father, his voice catching his son off guard as it unexpectedly rose with anger. "What?! You didn't think I'd want to see my own son before he marched off to war?!"

Steve flinched despite himself; it had been years since he'd seen his father like this, but a childhood raised with an alcoholic parent who was fond of nightly beatings gave rise to habits that were not easily broken, "I'm sorry sir," he said in a small voice, his eyes locked to the ground. "It'll never happen again."

"Yer damn right it'll never happen again," Steve's father said, spitting at the jungle floor right next to his son's feet. "And what th' hell is the deal with this Professor Erskine guy? You tryin' to replace__me, boy?!"

Steve's eyes opened wide with fear. It had never occurred to him that Professor Erskine could have replaced his father. After all, his Dad had never been much of a father figure to him anyway, so there hadn't been much to replace. He certainly__had never meant to offend his dad in any way.

But before he could say anything, his father had cut him off again, "Haven't you figured it out yet? You ain't never__gonna get rid of _me_, boy! We're family, an' family is forever," he said with a wicked grin.

"But Dad…I-I've got a new job now, an important job," Steve stammered, not daring to look his father in the eye. "I can't just be hanging around the neighborhood anymore like a deadbeat and…"

But that was as far as Steve got, "A deadbeat! Who you callin' a deadbeat, boy?! Why I oughta whup yer sorry ass right here!"

"Dad, I didn't mean…"

SMACK!

__Taking Steve completely by surprise, his father had reached over and smacked him so hard that it knocked the grown man off his feet. Now he was on the ground, his bruised and smarting face among the undergrowth of the jungle. But his face was nothing as compared to the hurt and shock that he felt inside. Even after all these years he couldn't believe that it still surprised him when his father hit him. Those old familiar feelings that he thought long forgotten and buried bubbled up again inside. The shame and humiliation of letting himself take the heat for his father's failures. The inescapable and irrational habit of questioning himself. What had he done wrong to make his father hate him so? Was he inherently _flawed___in some way? And finally, the dark, burning anger that he harbored for his father that he resented so much and had tried so hard to deny.

But despite all these emotions, Steve just continued laying on the ground, breathing hard into the dirt as his dad took another drag of his cigarette, "You think yer better'n me, boy?" he asked, his voice now soft and menacing. "You think you can do better'n your old man? Huh? You think you'll ever amount to anything?! Well look at you now."

Steve's father glared at his son with hatred, "Yer just like me, boy. We're th' same in every way, an' there ain't a damn__thing you can do about it. Th' sooner you get used to that, th' better."

The old man sneered at his son as he lay face down in the dirt, "Look at you. Yer pathetic. I hoped you'd try a little harder t'make somethin' of yerself after everything you put yer mother__through. Hell, if she saw you now she'd probably croak all over again."

That did it. That was all that Steve could take. He was no longer aware of his surroundings as he flew up off the ground. He was not aware of the fist he made, or she shocked look on his father's face, or the expression of pure, unadulterated hatred that marred his own countenance.

All he knew at that moment was the past. Memories flooded his mind of the brief span of time that he was able to spend with his mother as a small child. His mother, who had been the only ray of light in his otherwise dark, depressing world. His mother, who had been the only person to have given him an encouraging word for years. His mother, whose face he could no longer clearly picture, but whose radiant smile had stayed within his heart for his entire life. His mother, who had only gotten more and more ill as time went on. His mother, who had spent the last months of her life completely bedridden. His mother, who he had been forced to watch slowly lose her grip on reality. His beloved mother, who had finally passed without recognizing her only son's face. His mother, who was now gone forever.

It had taken Steve most of his life to stop blaming himself for his mother's death. Even though there had been nothing he could do about it, he still felt responsible somehow. Maybe that had been because his drunkard of a father had not so passive-aggressively blamed him as well, or maybe it was the result of some deeper insecurity, but he had finally gotten to a place where he could be somewhat at peace with it.

His father never had.

And right at that moment, Steve just couldn't stand to lay there and listen to his father disgrace the memory of his mother any more. He knew his mother had loved him. They had shared a special bond, a bond that he would never again let his father taint with his filthy words. He knew, no matter what his father said, that his mother had loved him, and that love would endure despite the veil of death that separated them.

Steve only became aware of what he had done when he noticed his father's body falling down to the jungle floor. For a second Steve was confused until he realized what he'd done. But while he felt no regret, he also felt no happiness, no joy, no closure. Had his father deserved what happened? Absolutely. Did Steve feel good about it, or proud of himself. Never. He had let the old man get to him. He had let his words mar him. But never again.

Steve's mind felt clear for the first time in his life. He was no longer the quivering child who acted as a punching bag for his abusive father. He was a man now. His father claimed that he would never amount to anything, that they were just the same. Well, he'd proven him wrong a dozen times over. He was Captain America, and he had finally escaped the dismal life of his childhood. He was living his dream, making the world a better place every day. He would never allow himself one more instant of self-loathing for his disgusting father's sake. It was time for him to move on.

Steve's eyes narrowed as he stared down at the crumpled, but still breathing form of his father, "I never knew what Mom saw in you. She was _ten times_ the person you were," he said, his voice cold and emotionless. "This is goodbye, Dad. Don't you ever darken my door again. And if you have one shred__of self-respect or dignity, you'll try__to live the rest of your life in a way that would make her proud."

Steve's defeated father never looked up from his splayed out position on the ground, "I was wrong…" he whispered in a broken voice. "You've never been like me at all. Yer th' spitting image of her. You always have been."

Steve turned away from the man laying in the mist, "Goodbye, Dad," he said as he walked away.

Steve Rogers never looked back on that spot as he made his way through the jungle, and as such, he never noticed when the body of his father faded away into the nothingness of the clouds that embraced him.

Steve breathed a sigh of relief a few minutes later as the mist began to dissipate. As the ever present jungle became clear around him once again, he could feel his rationality returning, almost as if the fog was lifting from his mind as well. But he didn't have time to wonder about his encounter with his father as a magnificent building rose into view in front of him.

Steve's breath caught in his throat at the sight of the structure, which could only have been the legendary Temple of the Panther God itself, the very goal that he had been searching for the entire time. The super soldier blinked back his disbelief as he took it all in.

The temple itself was obviously ancient, and it must have lay hidden within the deep confines of the jungle for centuries, having been totally abandoned by man. It rose several stories over the jungle floor, its uppermost reaches obscured by the heavy green canopy above. It had been constructed with enormous grey stones and overlaid with what had once been ornate carvings. However, its glory had long since been marred by the all powerful jungle, which had been slowly consuming it ever since. Statues and boulders had crumbled from the walls, leaving gaping black holes where they once had been. Vines and trees were growing from its foundations, slowly creeping up to the roof where Steve could see that birds and monkeys had taken up residence. Fortunately, the basic structure seemed sound enough. The grand entrance, an impressive archway which the green tinted sunlight could not penetrate, still appeared strong, and Steve was just contemplating going inside when he heard another noise behind him.

Instantly dropping to an attack posture, Steve saw none other than the Black Panther, ruler of Wakanda, standing there, "I see you passed the first test."

Steve never lowered his guard for an instant while asking, "Test?"

The Panther assumed a casual disposition, "Now that you have reached the sacred temple, you must pass three tests if you want to earn your shield back and save your friends."

"That's not fair," Steve argued. "You said that if I reached the temple I could leave. You never said anything__about tests."

The Panther shrugged, "What can I say? Here in Wakanda we do things the hard way."

Steve ignored him, "What are the tests?"

"The first is the test of the soul," explained the Panther in his usual deep, calm, strong voice. "The only way to reach the temple is by traveling through the perpetual mist that is the jungle's namesake. But as you suspect, it is no ordinary cloud. It was erected by the Panther God himself to protect his temple, and it tests the soul of those who enter it with illusions and visions, often depicting one's inner demons. If you are not strong enough to withstand and defeat these illusions, you vanish within the mist and are never seen again."

After a short pause, the Panther asked in a quiet voice, "…What did _you___see, Captain?"

Steve hesitated, his voice catching, "I saw…my father."

"I see."

"…What is the second test?" Steve asked, changing the subject.

The Panther's demeanor turned more aggressive as he picked up his spear and whirled it easily through the air, "The second test…is the test of the body."

Without uttering another word, the Panther was upon Steve. Captain America reacted without thinking, leaping backwards and parrying his opponent's strikes with his own stout wooden spear. However, it was immediately apparent that he was at a major__disadvantage. The Black Panther was at full strength, ready and equipped for a fight. His body armor and razor sharp claws made it difficult for Steve to do any real damage. His weapon, however, really made things difficult. Steve remembered it from first meeting the King. It was long, almost body height, with wicked looking twin blades on either side, and was made almost completely of pure vibranium. Maybe even more unfortunate was the fact that the Panther wielded it expertly, whirling it around his body in unpredictable patterns so fast that it became nothing but a blur, its deadly blades almost invisible to the naked eye. One hit from that thing would spell certain death for the super soldier.

Conversely, Captain America couldn't remember a time when he had been weaker. He had gone several days barely surviving in the harsh terrain of the jungle, and was now half starved and dehydrated. His uniform barely hung from him in tatters, providing no protection whatsoever, and his stick spear was downright laughable when compared to his enemy's weapon. If only he had his shield, he might have a chance, but that was completely impossible. What was he going to do?

But his thoughts were cut short as the Panther brought his one of a kind weapon crashing down on Steve's makeshift spear, instantly slicing it in two. Steve tried to stagger back in an effort to put some distance between himself and his foe, but the Wakandan reacted instantly, striking Steve with a mighty kick that sent him hurtling to the ground.

Steve was in a daze, so weak that he was almost incapable of defending himself, but his body reacted instinctively, dodging to the left and scrambling back to his feet before the King could finish the fight even though it had not even really begun. Desperately, Captain America shook his head as he leaped backwards, vigorously trying to clear it before it was too late.

"If I'm going to win this, I have to fight smarter, not harder," Steve thought, reminding himself of one of Stick's primary rules.

Steve mentally began to fight through his fatigue, trying to observe his surroundings as thoroughly as he could while still dodging the Panther's lightning fast attacks. To his surprise, they had already stumbled into the temple, which made fighting even more difficult. The dim lighting and dust obscured the loose rocks and fallen debris that made keeping a sure footing difficult. One bad step in the miasmic catacombs of the temple would mean certain death against his enemy, but Steve just had to trust that his feet knew what to do and keep striving at his best.

As he sidestepped another swift volley of blows, Steve's mind raced. If only there was something he could do about that double bladed spear! But how could he? The Panther had him outclassed in every way. How could he possibly compete with him now? But wait…maybe that was the answer…

Steve had an idea, but it was risky. Unfortunately he was running out of options, what with his broken arm and all. He either had to go for it now, or it would be too late for him…and his friends.

As Steve took another step back his foot slipped on a bit of rubble. Collapsing to his knees, he barely managed to dodge to the side, taking a light blow to the shoulder. He managed to stumble up again, immediately throwing himself into a clumsy lunge for the Panther. The Wakandan easily batted Steve aside, swiping at his exposed back before he could recover.

Now bleeding from several fresh wounds, Captain America slumped against a nearby pillar, breathing heavily. As the enemy advanced, now confident in his approaching victory, Steve threw a heavy punch at his head, but it was deflected by the spinning blades of the Panther's spear.

Steve yelped in pain as he withdrew his now bleeding hand, but lacked the energy for another catlike dodge, and the Panther savagely threw him to the floor, lowering his guard to sneer at his victim in disdain.

"I honestly hoped that you would have given me much more of a challenge, Captain," said the Black Panther with just a hint of regret. "I suppose you are not as worthy as I had thought. May the Panther God have mercy on your soul."

For an instant the Panther relaxed his defensive position while he brought his spear to bear for the killing blow. It was in that split instant that Captain America jumped into action. Using every last ounce of strength that he possessed, he leaped from the floor, swinging his bleeding fist straight at the Panther's unprotected face. The Wakandan King didn't even have time to be surprised as Steve's fist smashed__into his nose, audibly crushing several bones, and sent him flying__to the other side of the room. The spear went spinning wildly out of sight, completely lost in the half light of the mysterious temple. The only sound that could be heard in the aftermath of the attack was the sound of the spear clattering to the stone floor in an adjacent area somewhere.

Steve stood half dead on his feet, hunched over from the exertion of his attack and trying to stave off blacking out from utter exhaustion with all that remained of his strength. He didn't even have the energy to press his attack, allowing the Panther to stagger to his feet, wobbling this way and that from the dizziness that was the result of Steve's herculean punch.

"Don't…count me out…just yet…" Captain America managed to say, gasping for breath.

"I…I don't believe I've ever been hit so hard in my entire life!" replied the Black Panther, stunned. "I thought I had you at the end of your rope. How did you do__that?"

Steve struggled with a weak smile, "It was all an act, Panther. Stumbling on that rock, those clumsy attacks, letting you push me back here, I was acting weaker than I really was to make you overconfident. Apparently it worked, too. You would have never left yourself so vulnerable if you thought I still had the strength to fight back, and now I've taken care of your primary weapon."

"You are indeed a formidable warrior," the King replied in a dangerous tone. "I was wrong to underestimate you."

"But you are mistaken as well," the Panther continued, his clawed gloves glinting through the darkness. "For I am far__from beaten."

Leaping at Captain America with a speed that defied belief, the Black Panther began swiping at him with his razor sharp claws. But Steve had nothing left. He had committed the last of his strength to his previous blow. He tried to dodge his enemy's strikes, but he just wasn't fast enough. He could feel himself beginning to slip in and out of consciousness, but there was nothing he could do.

Steve grunted as he took blow after blow of the Panther's savage hits. He could tell this was the end. But as his mind began to slip into blackness, Steve at least realized that he had tried his best. No matter what happened, he could be proud of himself. He had given it his best shot. He had gone down swinging, and really, at the end of the day, maybe that's all he could have asked for.

"This is the end!" the Panther shouted, raising his clawed hand above his head and swiftly slashing through the flesh of Steve's chest.

But Steve never remembered that final blow. Nor could he recall the intense pain he must have felt as a result of it. No, when he thought back on that moment, all he could remember was closing his eyes against the blood that spattered his face, and then everything going black. For a time (the span of which he could not measure) everything remained that way around him, and within him, but when he once again became aware of himself he found that he was surrounded by a ghostly, white, drifting, nothingness.

Steve glanced around, fighting off panic, as he tried to find any__discerning features in his surroundings, but he couldn't see anything__else, no matter how hard he tried. Was he back in the mist again? No, this felt completely different. The whiteness was not exactly a fog, it was just…white. Was he dead? The only thing that Steve knew for sure was that he felt very small in this place, whatever it was.

"_**Steven Rogers, Captain America, I bid you face me.**_"

Steve turned to find himself face to face with the largest panther he had ever imagined. It was as big as a building, totally dwarfing the super soldier in its shadow. It was jet black from head to toe, with beautiful, glistening fur that rippled across the incredible muscles of its body. Its eyes were bright green, glistening with a terrible, primal intelligence against the beige backdrop of the surrounding whiteness. Its teeth and claws contrasted sharply with its body, inspiring an utter fear the likes of which Steve had never conceived. Somehow, he knew he was in the presence of a force of the kind he had no words for. He knew now why the Wakandans worshipped this thing as a deity.

"_**I am the mighty Panther God, you will bow to me.**_"

Steve immediately crouched to one knee.

"_**Steve Rogers, speak that which is in your heart.**_"

Steve didn't dare to look the Panther God in the eyes, "What…what are you?" he asked, curiously.

The Panther God did not hesitate to answer, "_**The Wakandans think of me as the god of this land, but that is not quite true. No, I am something different. I am one of the primal spirits of the Earth. I and my brethren serve a higher power, but it was our responsibility to shape this world, and we continue to safeguard the precious circle of life to this day. Mine is a savage rule, an almost forgotten primal sphere, where only the strong can survive. I am pleased to see that **__**you **__**are among the strong, Steve Rogers.**_"

Steve was thunderstruck, "What?" was all that he managed to say.

The Panther God never took his soul piercing gaze away from Steve, "_**All will be made clear to you soon, Captain America. Just know that you have a great and terrible destiny upon you, but that while your path is unique and fraught with dangers that no mortal before you has ever faced, that your faith in yourself and that in which you believe shall prove to be your salvation…and the salvation of your world.**_"

"I don't understand," Steve stammered, reaching out for the Panther God as it began to vanish before his eyes. "What does that mean?"

"_**Your time on this plane is over, Steve Rogers**_," replied the Panther God while he continued to fade into nothingness. "_**Remember the words I have spoken to you, and know that the blessing of the Panther Spirit goes with you on your travels.**_"

And that was the last that Captain America knew.

(For more Captain America and the Invaders, please use the link on askanison1985's deviantart profile.)


	20. Chapter 20

The Age of Marvels: Chapter Twenty

Captain America

and the

Invaders

Part Twenty

_**During the darkest days of World War II, America stood united against the threat of the Nazi Germany war machine. Our Greatest Generation sacrificed everything in order to stem the forces of oppression from overrunning our very planet, led under the fearless banner of the greatest warrior of our time, Captain America. Inspired by his courageous example, and with the aid of his misfit band of Invaders, Captain America led the forces of freedom to victory, changing his world forever.**_

New Jersey

The home of Mr. Barnes

"Of course, we had no ideawhat was happening to Steve," Mr. Barnes confessed after taking a deep yawn. "For all we knew, he might have already been dead."

Colonel Fury couldn't help but indulge in a long stretch; after all, the story had been going on for some time, "Wait, you thought Captain America was dead?"

A sheepish look crept over the old man's face, "Well, the others were afraid he might be, but I had faith in Steve. I knew he wouldn't let anything take him down."

Then the veteran's expression grew thoughtful, "On the other hand, after his fight with the Panther, I guess I couldn't have been more wrong…"

May, 1944

The Palace of the Royal Family, Wakanda

Steve Rogers blinked slowly, the sunlight coming in through the adjacent window proving too harsh for his eyes. Groaning, he turned his head to the side and halfheartedly attempted to sit up. The shooting pain from his spine and ribs, however, caused him to immediately regret his decision, and he slumped back down in the bed, defeated.

However, Steve's impromptu wakeup call did serve to jolt him out of his slumber enough to take stock of his surroundings. He was in a bed next to an open window in what appeared to be a hospital room, except that he couldn't recognize any of the medical equipment around him. It seemed to be of a much more advanced type than he was used too. In fact, it reminded him somewhat of the labs at Project Rebirth. Where the heck was he anyway?

That's when it all came rushing back to him. Steve had been sent to Wakanda with the Invaders. They had been captured, and Steve had been forced to trek through the Jungle of Mists and fight the nation's ruler, the Black Panther, in order to free his friends and prove that he was worthy of wielding the vibranium alloy shield that he had been given. Although he'd put up a good fight against the Panther, apparently it hadn't gone so well. The last thing he recalled was slipping into unconsciousness and then…having a vision of the Panther God himself? Had that really happened?

But Steve didn't have time for further introspection, "Ah, I see you have awakened."

Captain America looked up from his reclining position, keenly aware of the fact that his uniform had been replaced by a hospital gown, leaving his face and his secret identity completely exposed, and saw none other than the Black Panther himself entering the room. Steve immediately tensed for battle, despite realizing that he was in no position to defend himself, taking care to make sure that only confidence showed upon his features.

The Panther paused as he approached the bed, "Oh, my apologies," he said, removing his mask as well. "I mean you no harm, Captain. My only wish is to speak to you face to face."

Steve wasn't sure what he was expecting the Wakandan King's face to look like, but it wasn't this. The Panther was a handsome man, with strong, easily definable features. His eyes were keenly intelligent, and his face bore the markings of a man who had adopted a strict, unforgiving attitude on life. Curiously enough, his eyes betrayed a kindness and mirthful light, almost as if he had been forced to bury his true self for the sake of his duties. Most of all, the King radiated nobility and strength from every pore of his body, and much like an actual wild panther, he had best be respected if one wanted to walk away from an encounter with him unscathed.

Regardless, Steve took note that the Wakandan's double-bladed spear was nowhere to be seen, which made him feel a bitbetter, "You take too many liberties, Panther," Steve replied. "My identity is a matter of national security. If you wanted to speak honestly with me, it might have been better for you to have not removed my mask…or to have not beaten me into unconsciousness beforehand."

A thin smile crossed the King's face, "Your words have the ring of truth to them, Captain," he said, standing at the side of his bed. "But I believe I already made it clear that Wakanda already knew your secret identity before you arrived, thanks to our network of orbiting satellites. And as far as our fight goes, I'm sure you are aware that the only way for _true _warriors, such as ourselves, to get to know one other is through battle."

Steve met the Panther's comments with silence and a cold, icy stare.

The Panther sighed, "In the spirit of friendship, allow me to formally introduce myself," he said, extending his hand to shake. "My name is T'Chaka, and I am the King of Wakanda. I now welcome you to my country, Steve Rogers. Please enjoy your stay."

Steve's cynical expression never left his face, "Don't you think it's a little lateto be welcoming me like a tourist? I want to know what you hoped to gain by making me go through all that crap in the jungle, and I want to know wheremy friends are."

"Settle down, Captain," T'Chaka replied, holding his hands up defensively. "Your teammates are fine. They are no longer considered prisoners, and are safe and sound nearby."

The Panther continued, "I am sorry for what you had to go through after entering our country, but if we were to be allied with you, our traditions had to be upheld for the people to approve of you. Please accept our apologies."

That said, T'Chaka reached below the bed and handed Steve his triangular, red white and blue shield. The weapon was still in perfect condition, and it even appeared as if the Wakandans had given it a wash while it had been in their care. Steve gratefully reached out and held his beloved shield, running his hand over it just to make sure it was alright and watching as the sunlight glinted off its newly polished surface.

"Your apology is…accepted, sire," Steve said, nodding his head. "But please, what are these traditions you mentioned, and what was that about an alliance?"

T'Chaka smiled again, "You recall I told you that if you were to earn your shield and free your friends, you had to travel to the Temple of the Panther God inside the Jungle of Mists and that once there, you would need to pass three tests?"

Steve nodded, "Yes but, if I wound up in the hospital with broken ribs and a busted arm, I have to assume that I failedthose tests."

"Allow me to explain," the King replied. "The first test was one of the soul. By passing through the enchanted mists despite the visions it showed you, you proved that you posses a worthy soul."

T'Chaka continued, "The secondtest was one of the body. I had to engage you in combat in order to gauge your ability as a warrior."

"But…it wasn't a fair test," Steve argued. "You were armed to the teeth and at full strength. I was half exhausted and starving at the beginning of the battle. Plus, I had only a sharp stick to defend myself with. What was the reasoning behind forcing me to fight like that?"

"Though you have little knowledge about us as a people, you have already been exposed to many of the principals that govern our society," explained the Panther. "Our country was founded in an unforgiving jungle, surrounded by hostile nations who were hellbent on constantly warring with us and with each other. Our only salvation could be found in the Panther God, a deity whose purpose is to uphold the cruel and merciless law of the jungle…survival of the fittest. Thus, we as a people have to be smarter, faster, and strongerin order to be successful, and thatis why our nation has become the most feared, advanced, and greatest society on the planet."

"In short," T'Chaka said, staring directly at Steve. "You were made to take an impossible test because that is the kind of challenge we expect of ourselves."

"I still don't understand," Steve confessed. "If I didn't pass the test, why am I still here?"

"Oh, but you _did _pass the test," corrected T'Chaka. "The goal of the test of the body is not for you to defeatme, but merely for me to gauge your abilities. And may I say that you sir, are a formidable foe indeed."

"Well, thank you, but that still doesn't explain the thirdtest. As I recall, I blacked out after you beat me."

T'Chaka's small smile never left his face, "That _was _the third test, Captain. Tell me, do you remember seeing anything unusualwhile you slumbered?"

Steve's voice grew quiet, "Yes. I had a vision where I communicated with the Panther God. You mean that was real?"

The King nodded, "That was the test of the heart. When standing face to face with the mighty Panther God, he will judge your heart, and if he finds you worthy in the presence of his terrible power, he will give you his blessing and we, as a people, will welcome you to the warrior caste of Wakanda."

"I had no idea," Steve whispered, shivering with the memory of the deity. "But…what if I hadn't been found worthy?"

T'Chaka shrugged, "The Panther God would have consumed your essence and your physical body would have shriveled up until it resembled that of a mummified corpse. If you want I can show you. We keep them downstairs in the morgue."

"No thanks," Steve replied, shaking his head. "I think I'd rather not."

Then, a thought crossed Steve's mind, "Wait, what did you mean when you said I had to pass those tests in order for you to become our allies? Have you known why we came here since the beginning?"

"Don't act so surprised, Captain," T'Chaka answered, amused. "I'm just sorry it had to be done in such a roundabout manner. But if the people were going to accept my decision, you had to pass the tests."

"So, you'd already made up your mind to join us when we first met?"

"More or less," the Panther admitted. "We see what is going on in the outside world, Captain. You Americans don't even know the half of it. If you knew what was going on with the Jews within Nazi occupied territory, for instance, it would break your heart."

The King continued, "Wakanda has never bothered itself with outside affairs, but this is bigger than anything we have yet seen. Even the firstWorld War pales in comparison to this conflict. We have watched the Axis powers wipe out any and all resistance to their rule. We have watched their relentless march on the Russians, their merciless siege of Britain, and even the horrendous, bloody massacre of the Pacific front. Even you Americans have failed to establish a beachhead in Europe from which to oppose the Nazi threat."

"And that is why we have come to ask for your help," Steve interrupted, suddenly more serious. "We have been working with our allies in Britain, France, and Canada to organize the largest military strike in history in an effort to begin our European offensive against the Nazis. My team of Invaders was formed to spearhead this crucial battle, but there are so few of us. We need all the help we can get. You may very well be the man who can tip the balance in our favor. Can we count on you?"

For a long while, T'Chaka stared off into the distance, thinking deeply before answering, "Never before have the people of Earth faced a threat this implacable. The world is changing. It is growing smaller and more intricate. An isolationist policy will soon no longer be enough to keep our nation afloat, and I fear that the Allies lack the strength to check the Axis for long. We stand upon the cusp of Armageddon, and Wakanda's future hangs in the balance."

"Already we have heard rumblings of the Nazi's plans for our people, and the rare vibranium that we protect," T'Chaka continued. "If things continue along these lines, it will only be a matter of time until Wakanda is pulled into the war, regardless of what I do here today. The Germans will soon advance into Africa, and the dark continent will not be able to hinder their progress for long. Wewill be their first target, and if we do not act preemptively, our nation will be under siege. And with the rest of the world lacking both the ability and motivation to come to our aid, I am not confident that we can emerge the victor of such a dire scenario."

"Besides," finished the Panther, flashing a confident smile. "We are a warriorpeople. It would bring shame to us if it was said that the Wakandans chose to ignore the greatest battle in history. Yes, Steve Rogers, we will join your cause."

T'Chaka reached out and grasped Steve's hand, and they cemented the deal with a firm shake, both smiling broadly.

"Well this is fantastic!" Steve exclaimed, still smiling from ear to ear. "When should we begin making preparations to receive your first wave of troops?"

The King shook his head, "You misunderstand, Captain. As yet, my people are in no direct danger. I refuse to spill one drop of Wakandan blood until absolutely necessary. No, I have merely pledged to offer my _personal _services as the Black Panther to your team of Invaders for the foreseeable future."

"Very good, sire," Steve said, gratefully. "We welcome you aboard."

"Try not to act too disappointed, Captain," T'Chaka replied, gesturing toward the room's entrance. "Your friends have arrived to greet you."

"Steve! Buddy, it's so good to seeyou!"

James Barnes burst through the door in a whirlwind of excitement, instantly racing across the room and embracing his friend in an uncomfortably tight hug. The two friends couldn't help but start laughing uncontrollably while Logan and Namor approached from behind, each one smiling despite themselves.

"What happened to you, man?" James asked. "I was worried sick! I don't know what I'd do if I didn't have the old Scab to push around anymore!"

Steve laughed and playfully tossed his friend aside before he had the chance to bruise his ribs anymore, "Don't worry, James. I'll always be here for you to pester. What have you guys been up too? Have you been safe?"

"Well, the king of the jungle here _sent_ a bunch of crazy amazon warriors to beat the stuffing outta us," James complained, jerking his thumb towards T'Chaka, who met his accusatory glare evenly. "But we managed. In fact, we been holed up in our rooms inside the Royal Palace waitin' for youto get back on yer feet, you big sissy."

Steve chuckled, "Well, next time I get thrown out of a plane and attacked by jungle cats, I'll try to keep that in mind so I don't inconvenienceyou too much."

Then Steve turned his attention to his remaining teammates, "How about you two? Last I saw you, you weren't doing too well."

"We are quite well," Logan answered, his excitement showing despite his usually calm demeanor. "I must confess, it is a great relief to see you up and talking again, sempai."

"I knew that you would recover," Namor said, attempting to sound disdainful, but still unable to completely hide his smile. "Although I _am _happy to see you…for the sake of the team," he added. "Uh…because every minute you waste in bed is another minute you continue to hold us back…yes, that's it."

"Well, I'm sorry if I worried you," Steve said, matching the Atlantean's grin. "But I can already feel the serum kicking in. I should be alright in another day or two."

"Well then rest easy," T'Chaka advised. "Because before we leave Wakanda, we have a special ceremony to attend."

"What kind of ceremony?" James asked, his curiosity piqued.

"The kind you will not soon forget."

"People of Wakanda, thank you for coming here today!"

The roars of the crowds were deafening. Tens of thousands of men, women, and children had crowded into the massive public square in front of the Royal Palace, masses of them still spilling out into the packed streets beyond. So loud was the volume of their applause that it almost forced the assembled group above to take a step back.

It had been two days since Steve awoke in the hospital room, and although his body had still not fully recovered from his injuries, there was no more time to waste. The invasion deadline was quickly approaching, and if they were to leave Wakanda, they had to leave soon.

With that in mind, T'Chaka had decided to address his entire nation, and that was why he was standing on the grand balcony of the palace in front of such a vast audience. Behind him stood his queen and the rest of the small royal family, as well as the Invaders themselves, wearing uniforms that had been painstakingly replaced by the best tailors in the country. In fact, if Steve hadn't known any more, he'd think that these uniforms were betterthan their old ones.

"You all know of the great conflict that rages outside our borders," T'Chaka began, his voice booming over the crowds with the help of technology that Steve had never seen before. "The threat of the Axis powers grows ever stronger, and Wakanda will not be able to escape their shadow forever. Recently, the Allied forces have had the wisdom to request our aid, and in order to avoid risking the involvement of our great nation in this war, I have pledged the support of your King, the Black Panther, to their elite squad of mighty warriors, the Invaders!"

Another awe inspiring roar of approval rose from the masses, enveloping the small group on the balcony in their fervor.

"This guy has then eating out of his hand!" James whispered, leaning over to Steve. "Even Roosevelt doesn't command this much universal support."

"Wakanda isn't a democracy," Steve replied, still whispering. "But even so, T'Chaka is beloved by his people, as apparently his father was before him. Now hush, he's about to speak again."

"Now the Invaders, while foreigners, have passed all of our most demanding tests," the King continued. "They are powerful and worthy warriors all, and it is my honor to fight alongside them."

"Fear not for our country while I am gone, for I have appointed your queen as your new steward. She will rule wisely and true, and I expect you all to obey and serve her as you would me," the Panther said. "Remember, I go to fight for Wakanda, I go to fight for the Panther God, and I go to fight for every one of you! When I return, we will have made this world, and our nation, a betterplace, and all will know the strength and courage of Wakanda!"

So great was the crowd's response to their King that the rest of the Invaders were forced to go hide inside. While T'Chaka and his family continued to wave and smile out on the balcony, the Invaders huddled within the palace, grimacing and covering their ears.

"While I am certainly the most trusted trusted and loved monarch that my undersea domain has ever known, my subjects at least have the decency to show a little decorum during gatherings such as these," said Namor, frowning while he peered out the window.

"The Japanese people would never be caught reveling in such an undignified manner," Logan agreed, nodding sagely. "It is dishonorable."

"Ah, lighten up," James replied, popping two small capsules from his ears. "You should'a worn earplugs like me!"

The withering glares he received from both Namor and Logan wiped the smile clear off James' face, and he immediately went to hide behind his much larger star spangled friend.

"Focus, team. We can't afford to be wasting any more time here," Steve said, still staring out the window. "We have to start preparing ourselves for what comes next."

"And what's that?" James asked.

Steve turned to stare directly at his friend, a grim expression on his face, "A battle unlike anything the world has ever seen before."


	21. Chapter 21

The Age of Marvels: Chapter Twenty One

Captain America

and the

Invaders

Part Twenty One

_** During the darkest days of World War II, America stood united against the threat of the Nazi Germany war machine. Our Greatest Generation sacrificed everything in order to stem the forces of oppression from overrunning our very planet, led under the fearless banner of the greatest warrior of our time, Captain America. Inspired by his courageous example, and with the aid of his misfit band of Invaders, Captain America led the forces of freedom to victory, changing his world forever.**_

New Jersey

The home of Mr. Barnes

"So you finally got out of Africa, huh?" Colonel Fury asked, grinning.

"That's right, and not a moment too soon," Mr. Barnes answered, matching his friend's smile. "I was glad to put Wakanda behind me…but if I'd known what lay ahead for us, I might have asked to stay there a while longer."

The dim room grew heavy and silent as Fury whispered, "D-Day."

The old man nodded, "That's right. The Allied invasion of Normandy would commence in only a few days. We had finally assembled our full team just in time."

"Everyone grew up hearing that if it hadn't been for the Invaders, the battle would have gone to the Germans," the Colonel commented.

"Who's to say?" shrugged Barnes. "The top brass certainly believed that Operation Overlord's only chance was in complete secrecy, and since the Nazis knew exactly when and where we were coming, thanks to Schmidt, it didn't look good."

Another pall of silence fell over the house.

"But don't let anyone fool you," the wrinkled old man said, looking up and staring straight at the Colonel. "The creditfor the Normandy beaches ought to go to the realheroes of that day, the brave men who fought and died for our country. For all the might and skill of the Invaders, we ultimately just…helped them along a little…"

June, 1944

Somewhere above the Atlantic

"Yes, thank you, sir. We'll be there as soon as we can," Captain America said, turning the radio off. "Well, make yourselves comfortable, team. We've got a long flight ahead of us."

"What is our destination?" Logan asked, already in a seat, polishing his katana.

"We make for London," Steve answered. "And I want you all to appreciate this down time. Once we land, things are going to start happening quickly, so you all need to be ready."

"Can you give us any more details about what we can expect?" asked Namor.

"You already know the score," replied Steve, a bit quieter than usual. "The Invaders were formed in order to help the Allied forces win the war against the Nazis. Now that our team is complete, our orders are to rendezvous with the Allies North of the English Channel and back them up during the landing at Normandy. …I don't have to tell any of you how important this battle is."

Steve paused to let the gravity of the situation sink in, "This may be our only chance to gain a foothold in Europe. If this invasion fails, we effectively hand the entire continent over to the Germans, and their new empire will have unlimited resources with which to wage war on the entire world."

Again there was silence.

"Make no mistake, people," Steve continued. "We're staring down the barrel of a never ending worldwide massacre that would change the face of our very planet. We're looking at armageddon. And it all hinges on this battle. We don't stop the Axis here, and they don't get stopped."

"It's pointless, anyway," said a voice from the rear of the plane. "They already know we're coming."

The assembled team turned towards the voice. Steve frowned deeply as he saw that James had been the one who had uttered the hopeless comment. Even now he was slumped in his seat, absently staring out the window of the plane with a dejected expression on his face. Clearing his throat, Steve continued his impromptu briefing.

"Yes, it's true that the Germans know about the attack," he replied. "But they _don't _know about _us_. Once we land we'll be working with the higher ups to form a new attack strategy, one that will utilize our unique abilities and spearhead the invasion, allowing the main forces to do their jobs. It will be ourresponsibility to hit the beach first, and hit it hard, punching a hole for those that come behind us."

"That doesn't sound too difficult to accomplish," T'Chaka said confidently.

Steve shook his head, "The battle won't end there, Panther. We are alsoin charge of neutralizing whatever extra threats that Schmidt has added to the beach's fortifications in anticipation of our arrival. This includes the possibility of Schmidt himselfshowing up."

Namor snorted with contempt, "This _Schmidt_, is he not the Red Skull that we have heard so much about? What kind of threat could he possiblyhold for the King of Atlantis?"

"Don't underestimate the Skull," Steve warned. "He may be clinically insane, but he's stronger andfaster than I am. He was nearly the end of me when I fought him in New York."

The possibility of fighting someone who was more than a match for Captain America, who had once fought even the Atlantean King himselfto a standstill not too long ago, was enough to shut Namor up.

"Do not worry yourself, sempai," said Logan, putting his hand on Steve's shoulder. "This time, you have the strength of the Invaders behind you. We will not let you down."

Steve smiled, "Thanks, friend. Now let's get some shuteye. Tomorrow's gonna be a long day."

Despite his weary state, James found that no matter what he tried, sleep continued to elude him. Listening to the sounds of his companions drop one by one into slumber, he still could not force himself to close his eyes and rest. Instead, James passed the next few hours staring out the window of the plane, lost in his own thoughts, his head leaning heavily on the seat behind him, falling ever deeper into a state of despair.

It was when all the others had finally drifted off that he was joined by his best friend, shifting slightly as he felt Steve collapse into the adjacent seat, "Okay James, what's eating you?"

Though he couldn't quite decide why, James didn't reply, instead meeting his friend's query with silence.

Steve cleared his throat, "Listen, I can tell that something's bothering you. But for the life of me, I have no idea what it could be. If it's about the last mission, I heard from Namor and Logan that you performed admirably. The mission was a resounding success despite my injuries and that says great things about this team's potential. I mean, why do you think…"

But Steve didn't get to finish his sentence, "It's not about the mission, Steve!" James snapped, cutting his friend off. "At least, not the last one. It's about the _next _mission. It's about a mission that we both know we won't be coming back from."

Steve began to open his mouth in protest, but James once again cut him off.

"This is a suicide mission, Steve!" James continued, his passion causing his voice to rise regardless of his sleeping teammates. "We have assembled a team of the most powerful warriors in history so we can be immediately sent off to die. Hooray!"

Steve's face grew solemn as he continued to listen to his friend in silence.

"The only hope this mission had was in its secrecy," James continued, undaunted. "The entire combined strength of the Nazi war machine will be brought to bear down on us at Normandy and you expect five peopleto be able to change the course of history? No matter how powerful those people might be, those are still impossible odds. It's too much pressure! There is no way this ends well, Steve. You want to know who we are right now? We're not the Invaders…we're just dead men."

Silence descended upon the two friends like a shroud. Steve couldn't remember the last time he had seen James that upset. Finally opening his mouth to speak, Steve replied with a quietness that few had ever heard in his voice, "What's this really about, James?"

The Patriot shook his head, his voice slightly cracking with emotion, "It's just…I…I'm not like you guys…"

"How so?"

James sighed heavily, his gaze cast down to the floor, blinking back tears, "I don't…I don't have any _powers_, Steve. I'm just a regular joe toting a gun. I don't stand a chanceout there with the rest of you. I'm gonna get slaughtered! And I…I just don't know if I'm okay marching off to my own death like a dumb beast…you know? After everything we've been through, I just…don't want to go out like that…"

James' voice trailed off into nothing as he sniffed and ran his hand along his nose, trying to hold back tears. It took a minute for Steve to respond to his friend's worries as his mind travelled back a few days to his trek through the Wakandan jungle. A part of him had felt the same way then. He had realized that his life choices had led him to that exact spot, journeying through a foreign land on his way to almost certain death. How could he justify continuing down that path when all that could be gained was certainly his own demise? All he had to do was turn around and head back to save his own skin…but he couldn't. There was too much at stake; too many people depended on him for Steve to abandon them for selfish reasons. And it was that thought alone that had kept him going and had seen him through to the end of what turned out to be a successful mission.

Steve's voice was almost uncharacteristically soft as he began talking to his friend, "James, remember back when we were kids? We didn't have any money, any influence…any power, did we? We didn't have a thing to call our own except the clothes on our backs, right?"

"Yeah," sniffed James, wondering where Steve was going.

"We were just two little misfit kids running around New York, and all we had between us was a dream and enough stones to see it through," Steve continued, his voice growing stronger. "And look at what we did for that neighborhood by the time we left it. Look at all the people we helped, the liveswe changed. The homeless population was down, gang activity was down, the illiteracy rate had plummeted, we even helped families get back on their feet when they couldn't afford to feedthemselves! And we didn't have to be rich or powerful to do it, we just had to be brave enough to help our fellow man. All it took to change that neighborhood was a couple of kids who cared enough to make a difference. And you were a partof that, James."

James' expression changed as he looked up from the floor into the face of his friend.

"And you're a part of something now," Steve added, a familiar fiery passion barely concealed within his voice. "You are a necessary and integral part of this team, James. And you certainly don't need any powers to ensure that. You haven't skipped a beat since all this started, and you haven't had any problems keeping pace since the beginning of our mission."

"But, what about…"

Steve interrupted his friend's protest without pausing, "During the explosion at Project Rebirth who was the only one with enough strength to pursue Schmidt as he was fleeing? When we tracked him down to his hidden warehouse base, who took out several squads of soldiers while I went ahead and lost our man? When our plane crashed entering Wakanda weren't you one of the only able bodied people to stumble out of that wreckage when bothNamor and Logan needed hospitalization? And I heard about the test the Wakandans put you through in their prison. Didn't you pass with flying colors just like they did, even though they had powers and you didn't? If you ask me, that makes you _more _impressive than us, not _less _impressive. You can do everything that we can do, and you don't even needour fancy abilities and powers. You were an exceptional person even before the training you received at Rebirth. Now you are truly one of a kind. I'd say you have just as much right to be on this team as anyone."

"Thanks, Steve. That's good to hear," James said, straightening up a little in his seat and wiping the last of his tears away. "But that still doesn't change the fact that of all of us, I'mstill gonna be the most vulnerable during the invasion. Namor, Logan, and T'Chaka can take a bullet to the chest and keep on going like nothing happened, and you've even got your shield to protect you. If something happens to me, I'm a goner."

Steve sighed, "When we land, I have orders to meet up with the Allied brass to discuss how to plan the best strategy which integrates the Invaders with the other forces. It'll be a strategy that focuses on maximizing all of our strengths and minimizing our weaknesses. That's what a good battle plan is all about. And I promiseyou that I am not going to allow you to be put in a situation that you have not been trained for, okay? Whatever happens on that beach, you will be preparedfor it."

Steve's gaze met James' eyes unflinchingly as his voice once again lowered so that only the two of them could hear, "I will not allow you to die on that beach, James. I swear it."

James could feel his resolve strengthen despite himself as he matched his friend's stare, "Okay Steve. I'm with you," he agreed, nodding his head and giving off a quick salute. "Put me where you need me, pal. I'm your man."

Steve's smile was quick to return, "Thank you, soldier. You know, if I had ten more like you, buddy, we'd win this war within the week."

James gestured to the rest of the plane, "But you dohave more like me. That's what the Invaders are for."

Steve and James let their eyes wander around the aircraft over their sleeping friends and it was safe to say that impressivewas not the word that would have best described them at that moment. T'Chaka was mumbling something in his sleep about cheese, Logan's usually composed manner had been abandoned as he was making some kind of weird gurgling noise while he snored, and Namor was clearly drooling on himself in his slumber, although neither Steve nor James would have been brave enough to ever tell him so.

The two friends couldn't help but snigger with barely contained laughter at the sight of their exhausted teammates, and the rest of the trip to Britain was made much more enjoyable as they sat and talked about old times like they hadn't done since before they'd been recruited.

It was many hours into the night, and James and Steve were beginning to feel the first touch of exhaustion when their now quiet conversation was brought to an unexpected close by a sudden change in the constant whine of the engine. Fortunately, it wasn't difficult to see why. Leaning against the window, the two comrades found that they were beginning their descent. Before their sleep-deprived eyes the clouds below began parting, as if they were in a hurry to get out of their way, and the sight which met them underneath the their grey cover astonished them.

Stretched out before them all the way to the horizon was a sight that they wouldn't forget to the end of their days, the island of Great Britain. It was not possible to see the city of London from their vantage point, but the whole southern countryside was visible from their great height.

"Something's wrong," James said to himself, half whispering and peering as best as he could through the night's darkness. "It's past midnight now. We shouldn't be able to see a thing. Is it just me or do those city lights down there seem a bit off?"

"Those are not the lights of a city, James," interjected a quiet voice from the other side of the plane. "Those are the fires of war burning below."

James and Steve could hardly tear their eyes from the scene before them long enough to notice that Logan, Namor, and T'Chaka had all woken and were also staring out their windows as well. And it became immediately apparent to everyone that the samurai had been right. Massive flames and columns of smoke dotted the countryside as far as they could see, blotting out everything else almost as if they were slowly devouring the nation itself. The height of the plane and the blackness of night prevented the Invaders from discerning any details of the carnage, but their imaginations were overrun by images of what must have happened to produce such a scene.

"It's the blitz," Steve said, his voice heavy. "The Germans have been bombing the British for months now, reducing the entire nation to rubble. They've been showing talkies in the theaters about it ever since the start of the conflict. James and I were always there, cheering on the Brits as if it was just a story in a book. Seeing it like this, now…it's horrifying."

"Wakandan intelligence says that the British forces have taken refuge in what remains of London," T'Chaka replied in his deep, strong voice; the destruction below appearing to have little effect on him. "They have been trying to minimize civilian damage as much as possible and resist the Nazis for as long as they can but…it is only a matter of time before they are wiped out…just like the rest of Europe was."

"This is what they want to do to us…" James whispered to himself, disbelief and horror showing clearly in his eyes. "This is what the Nazis want to do to America. This is what they want for the whole world…"

Now the smoke from the rampant flames was beginning to obscure their view of the ground as they continued descending towards their ultimate destination.

"This is where it ends."

Captain America's clear, proud voice cut through the smog that seemed to cloud the minds of his soldiers as all eyes and ears turned from the grisly sights outside the window to their team leader.

Cap stood tall in the center of the aisle, a determined frown creasing his face, "We have witnessed the might of the Nazi regime firsthand. We have seen the horrors they would commit in the name of advancing their 'master race', and we have seen nations fall at their command…but I tell you that thisis where it ends."

Try as he might, James found that he could not tear his eyes away from his friend. Steve's iron will and complete confidence held the rest of his team utterly captivated by his words. It was almost as if Captain America was declaring Germany's defeat right then and there, so powerful was the strength of his convictions.

"Only a few miles away lies the mightiest naval fleet that has ever been assembled in the historyof the human race," Steve continued, pointing out the window. "In a matter of days they will sail for the northern coast of France, and an army the likes of which the world has neverseen will storm that beach, led by a team of heroesthat the world has never seen, and we will wage a battle that mankind will never forget!"

Steve's voice had risen to a crescendo that echoed through the tiny plane, "This is as far as the Nazis go! This is the last nation that they will ever ravage! This is the line that we _will not _let them cross! We will stop them here, and we will stop them now!"

Just as those last, passionate words had left his mouth, the plane exited the smoke of the blasted countryside, and the Invaders were treated to their first close up view of the English Channel, where an entirely different sight met their eyes.

Spread out before them riding the waves of the channel were so many ships that they nearly blotted out the water itself. The lights from the ships were so numerous that they were dazzling. The team members were forced to shield their eyes from the sudden light as they rapidly made way towards the absolutely staggeringfleet spread out before them.

"There…there must be _thousands_…" James exclaimed, his breath almost taken away.

"Over five thousand ships all told," Steve replied, grinning confidently as he stared out the window.

James turned to face his friend, still wide-eyed with wonder, "We might actually have a shotat this, Steve!"

Captain America placed his hand on his friend's shoulder, "Patriot, we are gonna blow those Nazis away."

The rest of the Invaders couldn't help smiling as they made their final approach to the majestic fleet hiding within the waters of the English Channel that night.


	22. Chapter 22

The Age of Marvels: Chapter Twenty Two

Captain America

and the

Invaders

Part Twenty Two

_** During the darkest days of World War II, America stood united against the threat of the Nazi Germany war machine. Our Greatest Generation sacrificed everything in order to stem the forces of oppression from overrunning our very planet, led under the fearless banner of the greatest warrior of our time, Captain America. Inspired by his courageous example, and with the aid of his misfit band of Invaders, Captain America led the forces of freedom to victory, changing his world forever.**_

New Jersey

The home of Mr. Barnes

"We had two days to breathe between our last suicide mission and the next one which would take place on the beaches of Normandy," Mr. Barnes continued, drawing a breath himself.

"Well, that's good," Colonel Fury replied, leaning back on the couch. "That must have given your team a little time for some R and R."

The old man barked out a laugh, "Hah! Are you kidding? We barely had time to sleep! Do you have any idea how many things needed to get done before the invasion? Ammunition, food, supplies, uniforms, armor, medicine, all that stuff and more had to be unloaded from their crates and stocked. Soldiers needed to be directed and platoons needed to be instructed. All the officers and brass required detailed plans for the next few days and the backup to ensure they succeeded. And we haven't begunto discuss the massiveorganizational and logistics nightmare that we had to untangle before we even thought about actually landing men on that beach. It was a madhouse. In retrospect, it's hard to believe that D-Day ever happened at all..."

June 4th, 1944

The English Channel

The din outside could only be described as a scene of massively organized chaos. One of the largest fleets ever assembled was resting just off the coast of Britain, a floating city containing ships of all shapes and sizes. Men could be seen running around every which way, loading supplies and getting themselves ready for what would be the largest amphibious invasion in the history of the human race. Preparations had been underway for months, if not years,to ensure that the next few days would be the turning point of the war, and now the responsibility fell to those very men to guard that victory jealously. It was a task that no one was taking lightly.

But all of that hubbub was now taking place outside, and Steve Rogers allowed himself a moment to appreciate it. For now he was content to be sitting in the conference room of the battleship HMS Ramillies while the rest of the brass began to settle down for the mission briefing that would outline their attack for the next few days. The constant noise from the decks became nothing but a barely perceptible dull murmur in the background, a welcome escape from the restlessness that had claimed the assembled Allied forces.

Steve stood with respect along with the other officers in the room as the orchestrators of the invasion marched in. He recognized the American as one of the highest ranking heroes of the U.S military, but the was not familiar with the Britain behind him.

"Please sit down," said the American, placing his hat on the table and taking a place at its head beside his companion. "I am Lieutenant-General Frederick Morgan, in charge of the overall command of ground forces, and this is General Bernard Montgomery of the British Armed Forces. Be sure and show him your respect. This operation is hisbaby."

The General was given a polite round of applause.

"Please sir, I'm sure we don't have time for such pleasantries. Let's get down to business, shall we?" Montgomery replied, with a small bow to Morgan.

"My pleasure," said the Lieutenant-General as Montgomery took a seat. "Here's where we stand people, Operation Overlord is a joint invasion conducted primarily by allied American, British, Canadian, and French forces, as well as several smaller units from other nations. This is our first, best, and possibly onlychance to bring the battle to Hitler, as he has most of Europe under his control. Bottom line...if we don't grab a foothold on that beach, we may neverdefeat the Nazis."

Morgan leaned over as he addressed the officers, "And here's how we're gonna do it. First, we have to weaken the German defenses as much as possible in preparation for the initial landings. We hit them hard, fast, and as silently as possible with covert attacks designed to incapacitate or destroy key strategic reinforcement zones behind their front lines. Operations Dingson, Samwest, and Cooney will ensure that there are as few Krauts on that beach as possible when the main force strikes, and that additional support forces for the enemy should be impossible This will be undertaken by a joint force of specially trained paratroopers in small squads who will be dropped overhead courtesy of the Air Force."

"The other support mission, known as Operation Neptune, is designed to ensure the safe delivery of troops to the actual beaches themselves," interjected General Montgomery. "In short, during Neptune it will be the Navy's job to eliminate any threats along our route from here to Normandy and defend said route so that the rest of you can complete your objectives. These operations will begin the night before the attack, to ensure both a high probability of success, and that the main invasion force will have as much chance as they can of holding that beach."

"Operation Overlord, the primary invasion, will commence as close to dawn as we can manage," Montgomery continued. " We were originally planning on striking a few days sooner, but weather conditions being what they are, we have been forced to postpone for a day or two. The overall invasion will be the most massive project we have ever undertaken, spread out across five different areas, Sword Beach, Juno Beach, Gold Beach, Omaha Beach, and Utah Beach. We also have a special unit assaulting Pointe du Hoc, which is where we think their officers may be coordinating a large portion of their defenses. Now the brass in charge of each area of attack will be briefed individually on their specific objectives, as well as the opposition that you're sure to face, so remember that."

At this point, Steve couldn't help but raise his hand, "Not to interrupt sir, but where will myunit be placed?"

Morgan addressed Captain America without skipping a beat, not affording the super soldier even the most brief illusion of special treatment, "Yoursquad, Rogers, will be assigned to the most heavily defended and critical area of the attack, Omaha Beach. And I'll go over the individual duties of your men in just a minute."

Montgomery and Morgan turned to address the assembled commanders together, "This concludes the initial briefing, gentlemen. If you'll step right over here, we will begin discussing specific plans for the various beachhead landings with you right away."

While Montgomery walked the remaining officers out into the hallway, Morgan placed his hand on Steve's shoulder, directing him into his office and away from the others, "Follow me, soldier. We have a lot to talk about."

King Namor the Sub-Mariner ascended from the depths with a resounding splash, sending water cascading over the unfortunate soldiers who were standing close by. Shaking himself off not unlike a wet dog, he smoothed his hair back before addressing the clearly uncomfortable officer to his left.

"I think you'll find that your problem has been dealt with."

"Uh...thanks," replied the officer, so nervous that he was nearly stuttering. "Our anchor has been loose ever since we intercepted a German U-boat a few months back. She's been drifting to the left a bit too much for my taste."

"Yes yes, you may excuse yourself from my presence," Namor interrupted, dismissing the soldier with a wave of his hand.

As the officer retreated, still making up his mind whether to feel relieved or insulted, the Atlantean was approached by his two much more confident comrades, "My, but you have such a rapport with the common folk," said T'Chaka, a hint of mirth in his deep voice.

"I have no use for such as those," Namor said, disdainfully. "They are of no consequence."

"And yet without warriors like these, your crown would be meaningless," Logan responded, thoughtfully. "After all, surely our immediate future rests upon their shoulders just as much as their fates rely upon ours."

"Nonsense!" said Namor, barking out a laugh. "I could easily subdue two dozen of these paltry excuses for soldiers. What need have I of them?"

Logan's perceptive eyes continued looking over the noisy rucuss of the men readying for battle as his quiet, gruff voice addressed his friend, "Tomorrow we embark upon one of the greatest conflicts the world has yet seen. These dedicated souls are willing to risk their very lives to defend those they hold dear. These great masses will break upon the shores of France in crimson waves of blood, and indeed a good many of them will no doubt perish. But make no mistake, king of the deep, our victory in the coming storm lies entirely in theirhands, and not our own."

"Agreed. The Invaders cannot win this war alone. We depend upon our superior powers and abilities, which should allow us to hopefully tip the scales in this war. These men have nothing but the courage of their hearts and the strength of their arms to see them through. Their kind is a rare breed," T'Chaka agreed. "They have no assurance that they will ever live to see their families and homes again, but still they fight on. They fight without the aid of enhanced powers, training, or abilities. According to my spies in the states, their zealous fire to preserve freedom burns so brightly that their recruitment officers have to turn people awayfrom the war, as their elderly, their children, and even their infirm recognize the immensity of the threat before them and wish to do everything they can to stem the tide of oppression. Truly this is a generation to be admired, regardless of what one might think of their culture."

Apparently his friend's words had an effect on Namor, who became uncharacteristically quiet, and when he spoke next, it was with a soft voice, "When I was but a boy growing up in Atlantis, I had a friend among the nobility of the city. He was rather loud and obnoxious, though these were qualities he was constantly striving to improve upon, but he nevertheless remained ignorant of the ways that one was expected to conduct himself when in the presence of royalty. He possessed a bumbling, uncoordinated nature about him, and while he was kind, pleasant, and good natured, some wondered whether he was ill suited for the life of etiquette and protocol that awaited him."

Namor paused a moment before continuing his story, "About that time the kingdom was engulfed in political turmoil. Eventually the unrest grew to such a fervor (which had been staged by a dissident extremist faction) that a coup had even been attempted by a terrorist group lead by a religious maniac named Attuma."

"I, along with several other children, was being evacuated by the royal guard to a secure location," explained Namor. "Along the way I became separated in the chaos. Lost and confused, I accidentally stumbled upon a rebel soldier. He raised his blade to strike me down, and that very well could have been the end of me if not for my bumbling friend, who rushed onto the scene, grabbed my hand, and dragged me away."

"I know not how we evaded our pursuer, for I had been paralyzed by my own uncontrollable fear at the thought of impending death. Surely if it had not been for my clumsy friend I would have perished that day," the King finished. "Never did I question his worthiness again."

"I have often viewed America, as I have most of the surface world, as an obnoxious, ignorant child," finished the King of Atlantis, looking up to meet his friend's eyes. "But perhaps I should try to view each nation on an individual basis. There is clearly a vast ideological difference between the average American and the average German, just as there are differences between Atlantis and Wakanda. And these men are assuredly proving themselves upon the field of battle. I suppose that they have at least earned the benefit of the doubt in my eyes."

"They have earned more than that," said Logan, his gaze still roving over the enormous fleet of warships spread out before them. "They have earned a place in the immortal annals of history. Win or lose, their implacable courage will be remembered for generations to come."

James Barnes sat alone, his legs dangling over the bow of the HMS Ramillies, his vision cast out over the vast expanse of the English Channel as the sun, hidden amidst a cloudy sky, continued sinking under the horizon. Despite the chilling rain and driving winds, he found that he just could not stay put in his cabin. He was much too restless.

Ignoring the startlingly icy wind which ruffled his heavy coat about him, he chucked another stone off the side of the ship. He could not hear the muffled plop as the rock struck the waves below, his mind was on other, more pressing matters. In less than 24 hours he would be embarking across the span of water before him with thousands of people at his back, charging headlong into a battle that he knew would define the rest of his life. How could he possibly be ready for that?

His thoughts drifted back to the previous day, when Steve had joined him on the plane. How ironic was it that Steve, the strongest, most capable man James had ever met, had more faith in him than he himself did? What did that say about him?

James couldn't help but smile. He was sure that no one else on the team was experiencing even a moment of self-doubt. Heck, Namor could stare down the apocalypse itself without blinking. And Steve was right, hadn't James proven himself just as capable as any of the rest of them? After all, he'd earnedhis place on the Invaders. He'd worked hard for it.

"I guess this is the kind of situation the team was made for," James said to himself. "But...I never imagined my life would have become like this. If I had known...would I still have enrolled?"

James remembered that day months ago when he and Steve had walked into the recruitment office, and been whisked away by Dr. Erskine to that secret underground facility. He had to admit, Project Rebirth had made him feel a little bit like Alice falling down the rabbit hole into Wonderland. He couldn't believe everything that had happened to him since then. Certainly nobody at home would ever believe him.

Why had he signed up in the first place? Obviously he wanted to serve his country. He'd never had any doubts about that. He'd never wondered if he'd done the right thing by fighting the Nazis. But he could have done just as much in the regular military service. He would have made a fine ordinary soldier, without all the pressure and doubt that came hand in hand with an organization like the Invaders. So why hadn't he done that instead?

It was Steve. Steve was his best friend...his brother. The poor idiot had been convinced since the day he was born that he could make the world a better place. And he was willing to do anythingto make that dream a reality. That was what made him special. It was what drove James to believe in him when they were just children, and it was what kept inspiring him now that they were grown. And damn it, he had been right. Captain America was a hero unlike any the world had ever seen, and he was leading a team that had proven itself to be truly revolutionary. A once in a lifetime force battling a once in a lifetime threat. And Steve was just the man to lead the charge.

James sighed; he couldn't have just left Steve by himself to face the unknown, could he? Someone had to look out for the little scabber. Besides, hadn't James saved his life the day Rebirth was destroyed? And there was no waySteve would have survived the mission against Schmidt if James hadn't been there to cover him. The two of them were a team, all right. The heart and soul of the Invaders.

It was with that thought that James' eyes opened for what seemed like the first time. It was suddenly obvious to him what Steve had been trying to tell him all along. He needed James just as much as James needed him. Captain America and the Patriot were inseparable. Together they embodied the spirit of the American dream, and the ideals that they clung too, which were so desperately important in the midst of this war. After all, what would America be if it won the war, but sacrificed its principals? That was what Captain America represented. It's what woke Steve up in the morning. And it was what James was proud to help uphold and defend no matter the danger.

That was why he was here, James decided. His job was to back Steve up, to protect the man who protected the flag. And that was a job he could be damnproud of.

James still stared across the Channel, and the wind still whipped his jacket around his shoulders, but his eyes had lost the indecision and the fear which had so clouded them. Now, as he began to stand and return to the team who was waiting for him below deck, he looked unblinking into the future, armed with fresh resolve and renewed vigor. He knew that whatever waited for him across those waves, he would be ready for it.


	23. Chapter 23

(Warning: This chapter contains graphic and gory imagery.)

The Age of Marvels: Chapter Twenty Three

Captain America

and the

Invaders

Part Twenty Three

_**During the darkest days of World War II, America stood united against the threat of the Nazi Germany war machine. Our Greatest Generation sacrificed everything in order to stem the forces of oppression from overrunning our very planet, led under the fearless banner of the greatest warrior of our time, Captain America. Inspired by his courageous example, and with the aid of his misfit band of Invaders, Captain America led the forces of freedom to victory, changing his world forever.**_

New Jersey

The home of Mr. Barnes

Silence had settled over the living room, as the deep darkness of the newborn morning shrouded everything in its clinging shadows. The light cast from the single lamp which remained lit seemed to shrink from the two soldiers, as if the words spoken by the old man possessed some kind of strange power over it. If Colonel Fury had been a superstitious man, somewhere in the back of his mind he would have been afraid that the memories of that day were somehow bringing the spirits of the past back to life. The Colonel at once felt a deep loneliness and a disturbing feeling as if unseen eyes were watching him as a chill ran down his back. And he knew that this would be a night that he would carry with him for the rest of his life.

"What I remember the most about that day," spoke Mr. Barnes, his rough voice unexpectedly breaking the dim silence. "Was the noise and the blood."

His ancient eyes pierced the space between them as he stared intently at Fury, "Noise and blood was everywhere. You couldn't think, you couldn't speak, you could barely move. There was no escaping the horror that stared you in the face wherever you turned. It burned itself into my mind...my soul. ...I still have nightmares about it."

The shadows obscured the old man's face, masking his eyes behind the darkness as he continued his story, "Many people eventually walked away from the battle that day...but there was something inside each one of us that died there. That beach claimed a part of me that I will never get back..."

June 6th, 1944

Omaha Beach, Normandy, France

James could see the wave even from his distant position within the transports. It was enormous. It towered above the fortifications lining the beach, which were still far away in the distance. Looming above the concrete bunkers which were built into the cliffside facing the waterline, the wave was easily twice as tall as they were. James grinned cruelly as he imagined the faces of the Nazi troops stationed within the bunkers, their faces stricken with terror as the shadow of the wave grew ever darker upon them.

The atmosphere in the transports could only be described as tense. James had noticed soldiers praying, puking, and silently weeping all morning. He himself found that he had been experiencing shaky spells, his hands trembling so much at times that he couldn't even hold his canteen to his lips steadily enough to drink the water. But even that level of fear and despair was suspended as the wave seemed to hover for just a moment over the enemy's static defenses, before crashing down upon them in a cascade of raw power that utterly overwhelmed the entrenched German forces.

James' mouth hung open in astonished disbelief. Although it was difficult to see the effects of the wave with the unaided eye at that distance, the force of the ocean's might was still undeniable. Whoever had thought to use King Namor's command of the sea to that extreme degree had been a genius.

Of course, Namor had been reluctant to agree to the strategy at first. Well actually, completely outraged would have been a more accurate term. It had been General Montgomery who had originally approached him the previous day about the possibility of hitting the coast with a tidal wave in order to throw the Nazis into a state of panic and bewilderment just prior to the invasion. Namor had agreed that it was a good idea, but in order to create a wave of that magnitude he had to summon a large number of great beasts out of the ocean depths, and he would have to direct and aid them by swimming in the correct pattern at a precise speed. Not only would the procedure take all night, but it would leave Namor so exhausted that he would not be able to assist with the actual invasion, which was something that he absolutely _insisted _upon. After all, he had not joined the Invaders only to sit out the most important battle of the war.

It had taken Steve Rogers almost half an hour to calm him down and help him see the necessity of the plan. Yes, there had been a bomb strike issued to take place upon the beach during the early hours of the invasion, but there were too many things that could go wrong. The bad weather they were experiencing could mess up their sensors, there could be more anti-aircraft ordnance than they'd anticipated, or they could simply have been given the wrong coordinates. Their information on the beach's defenses was fairly dated after all, and these kind of things had happened before. In short, they needed all the help they could get, and a massive tidal wave would deal far more damage, resulting in an uncalculated state of disorientation among the enemy, which would greatly outweigh the amount of damage that the King of Atlantis could ever _hope _to match individually. In the end, even Namor had to concede that the plan was sound.

James was startled out of his reverie by the voice of the ensign piloting the small craft, muted as it was through the sound of the wind and waves, shouting at them to get down as he started the engine up. Straining as they had been to see the wave over each other and the side of the transport, the soldiers took their seats as fear and nerves began to set in again.

James tugged his helmet down over his eyes to protect his face against the harsh wind and icy spray of the sea. While the weather had improved slightly from the nightmarish conditions of several nights ago, it was still far from perfect. As far as he could see, the sky remained an impassive iron gray color, and had remained overcast for the better part of a week now. Strong, chilling winds whipped the waters up into a choppy fervor, causing great turbulence for the troops huddled within their tiny transport. James could even tell that a few of the men were getting seasick and had begun vomiting. This wasn't anything new for the soldiers. Many of them had been so violently ill for the past few days that they had nothing more to cough up, some of them heaving up nothing but a pale, watery substance or even blood.

As the shore quickly approached, James couldn't help but take stock of the men in his boat one last time. They were a motley bunch, to be sure. Nothing like his fellow Invaders who he had come to trust and rely on so completely. Many of them were praying or whispering silently to themselves. He noticed a few were signing the Catholic cross, though whether they were actual believers or not was anyone's guess. Others were shifting uncomfortably in their seats, clutching their guns to their chests so tightly that their knuckles had grown ghostly white. Those who weren't exhibiting other signs of distress just sat doggedly where they were, dead eyes staring straight ahead at the ever approaching sands of Normandy. These were the ones who had already given up hope and resigned themselves to their fates. They wouldn't last long.

James adjusted the pack on his back, trembling as he swallowed down the lump that had risen in his throat. Beads of sweat began to form on his brow, despite the chilly weather that tore through his uniform. As fear threatened to overwhelm him, he closed his eyes, said a short prayer, and remembered the last time he'd seen Steve. As always in his memory, his buddy had stood tall and proud, fully aware of the insurmountable danger that threatened him, and yet still utterly confident that they could and would overcome them.

Unbidden, a picture of his parents sprang to James' mind. He hadn't seen them, or even given them much more than a spare thought, since before he and Steve had visited that recruitment center so many months ago. What if that was the last time he ever got to visit his family? How would they cope if their only son were to die, just another bloody, broken, horror of a corpse upon an alien, dreary beach on the other side of the globe, miles away from home. Was that the fate that waited for him mere minutes from now?

James pulled himself together, realizing that they only had a moment or two before they would be within range of the beach, "Get ready, guys!" he said, forced to shout over the din of the waves and the surf.

His men halfheartedly shouldered their guns and packs, throwing him unfriendly glances out of the corner of their eyes. James ignored them, turning again to face the beach. He knew what the men thought of him and his team. Apparently they'd been getting a lot of media attention back home since they'd been away. Mostly stories from their escapade against the Red Skull on the docks of New York and their exploits in Africa. To the public at large the Invaders had become what they had been partially meant to be...beacons of hope amidst the darkness of war. But to the military their reputation hovered somewhere between a myth and a joke. The Invaders, and Captain America in particular, were considered to be the battlefield versions of an urban myth, hyped up by the media in order to inspire the masses to work harder to support the war at home. Many doubted whether the Invaders had ever seen any action at all, and _everyone _assumed that even if the ridiculously dressed clowns ever encountered any real resistance, that they would ultimately serve as little more than cannon fodder.

The men under the Patriot's command believed all this, and had resigned themselves to the thought of being led into battle by a useless puppet. They resented James, thinking that their already slim chances of survival had been slashed even further because they had no real leadership. Some of them were even planning on abandoning their posts and heading for the nearest neighboring platoon upon landing, figuring that this would be their only chance of making it through the day alive.

Well, there was a part of James that personally doubted he would do any good during the coming battle as well, but he had already been a witness to so much danger since he'd stumbled into this mess that he felt he should be capable of handling the situation. He had his orders, and he had the requisite experience and know-how to achieve them. He would just have to show those guys by his actions, rather than just his words, that they could put their faith in him. That is if any of them lived long enough.

The Patriot's attention was caught by a commotion to his left. He turned to see a transport, high pitched engine whining in protest, caught in the fury of the extremely choppy waves. The severity of the churning waters had been no doubt inadvertently aided by Namor's tidal wave,which meant that the transport could no longer continue forward under those adverse conditions. James and his men could only stare in horror as the craft leaned over and capsized, pitching its screaming, shrieking passengers into the drink.

James glanced over at their escort, hoping against hope that there was something they could do to rescue any survivors. The navy ensign just shook his head subtly. There was nothing they could do. Laden down with weapons, ammunition, and supplies, not to mention the heavy boots and helmets that they wore, it was doubtful that many of them would survive in water that deep. A lucky few may make it to the shore, but already exhausted, waterlogged, disoriented, and without any way of defending themselves, what chance did they have, really?

Now the shore was only a handful of meters away. James' stomach tightened into a painfully solid ball as he gripped his weapon feverishly. Other transports were slightly ahead, and he could see them lowering their landing ramps as the soldiers began to stand, waiting on the balls of their feet to rush out onto the beach. To his horror, James watched as bursts of gunfire could be heard from the direction of the concrete bunkers on the coast. Bright yellow flashes streaked through the air as rounds shot directly into the neighboring transports.

Many of the soldiers didn't even have time to scream as the deadly rounds tore through them, their bodies dropping where they stood just in time for more bullets to pierce those who stood behind them. The metal walls of the craft caused the rounds to ricochet wildly from person to person, wiping out whole units in mere seconds.

James turned to the navy ensign again, wild eyed, an order to belay landing on his lips. But the expression on the ensign's face told him that he was already too late. The boarding ramp had already begun to be lowered. They had mere moments to save themselves before the crushing onslaught of war obliterated the lives of himself and his men.

"Over the sides! Over the sides!" Patriot shouted, gesturing wildly as he scrambled to hoist himself over the rim of the craft.

As he tumbled into the freezing water, James could hear the splash of bodies around him, but he had no idea how many people were able to save themselves. All he knew was the murky silence of the English Channel as he submerged with a swiftness that utterly frightened him, beneath the waves.

Already straining for air, James struggled to hold his breath, noticing that his equipment bogged him down far too much to make it back to the surface. His expert training guiding his quaking hands, he worked quickly to unfasten the buckles and buttons that connected him to his supplies. However much he struggled, he couldn't keep the plight of the men around him from distracting him from his fight to survive.

Soldiers by the dozen suddenly found themselves sinking beneath the ever rising tides. But while this earned them a respite from becoming an immediate human target for the Nazis waiting above, their situation was still deadly serious. Bullets whizzed by, leaving bubbling water trails in their wake. Men were dropping like flies, pierced by deadly underwater projectiles. Pandemonium and fear reigned as the water grew thick and crimson at an alarming rate. Men fearfully writhed about, straining with painful futility to undo their clasps as bullets flashed by them. As James finally managed to free himself from his restraints, and began to kick off from the sandy bottom towards shore, his knee knocked against something soft. James turned to come face to face with a young soldier, his eyes still gazing with empty surprise and his mouth wide open in the midst of a scream that nobody had ever heard. He had drowned without even firing a single shot.

Inescapable horror clutched at the Patriot's heart, and pushing the body away, he swam for shore as fast as he could. Still panicking from the experience, and with his lungs burning within him, he finally broke the surface. Gasping desperately for air, all James got instead was a mouthful of salt water, causing him to choke violently.

Slowly staggering forward, spitting out great mouthfuls of sea water, James took no heed to the death and destruction that was raining down from the cliffs, decimating his men. As he regained himself, his senses brought the full scope and horror of the battle to his attention. Collapsing with exhaustion rather than crouching, the Patriot unwittingly took stock of the situation from the extremely limited protection of a giant, metallic 'x' shaped spike protruding from the beach. These were called Czech Hedgehogs, and they were massive, sharp defensive placements designed to keep ships and tanks from approaching from the ocean. The beach was littered with hundreds of them. Most of the men who weren't completely shell shocked, or weren't running haphazardly in a screaming panic, were huddled beneath these Czech Hedgehogs, cowering and praying to whatever god they held dear.

Time seemed to slow around the Patriot as he stared, paralyzed with fear and fatigue, across the battlefield...realizing that it was much more like a slaughterhouse than any field of battle he'd ever heard of. Bodies, some still twitching in their death throes, lined the shore. The water had already been dyed a morbid dark red, with sand clumping around bleeding body parts and chunks of innards. Men were being mowed down by the hundreds. They would be crouching or dashing across the beach, and suddenly go stiff, often with an expression of surprise and horror now forever etched into their features, and then drop. He could see whole groups of men sprinting for cover, instantly ripped to shreds by incoming machine gun fire. He noticed a man with a flamethrower unexpectedly screaming as his fuel pack burst, instantly engulfing his body in flames. Those nearby began fleeing immediately, but they were still too late. They were consumed in the fire, their terrified cries dying in the inferno that had claimed their lives.

Another man was scrambling for safety, just emerging from the water, dragging the body of his friend along behind him. James couldn't find a bullet wound for the man, but he wasn't moving and was totally unresponsive, his head leaning down to one side, undeniably dead. As the first man continued to drag him, a mortar went off, blowing sand and body parts across the beach. The man collapsed, scraping around on the ground for the body of his friend...which he found completely torn in half. As the soldier crouched, weeping over the mutilated corpse of his brother, a hail of bullets shot through his body, and he was dead, just like that, falling over his slain comrade.

James could see another soldier staggering through the field of battle, clearly in shock, as he bent down and picked up his own arm off the ground. James turned to vomit as he saw the the soldier calmly walk over to the nearest medic, who attempted to sew it back on before both of them were killed instantly by incoming fire.

Everywhere around him men were crying, praying, or cursing. He saw a new recruit, still only a boy really, laying bloodied and mutilated on the beach, wailing incessantly for his mother, his tears mixing with the blood which flowed freely from half a dozen wounds.

Bodies littered the beachhead so thickly that it was becoming difficult to walk. Many of the men's uniforms had been so saturated with blood that they became indistinguishable from each other. He saw one soldier laying on the shore, shrieking and begging for death. His intestines had been blown completely through his stomach, and were now splayed out next to him in a growing pool of blood.

The moans and cries of the dead and dying filled the air as the Patriot found himself unable to do anything but vomit while he crouched behind the Czech Hedgehog, wondering what the hell he was doing there.

"Hey soldier, you hurt?" asked a rough voice from beside him.

James looked up from his puddle of bile as four men scrambled across the surf toward his position. One of them threw James a gun while they flopped down on the sand, their bodies pressed up against each other in a desperate bid to escape enemy gunfire.

"What's your name, son?" the soldier, a captain, asked.

Then, giving James a double take, his eyes creased in confusion, "...And what the heck are you wearing?"

That simple question, that semblance of human contact, was all James needed to snap him out of his state of shock and let his training take over so he could reassert himself, "My name James Barnes, sir, codenamed the Patriot, here with the Invaders initiative. My orders are to supervise the infantry forces to make sure we secure the beachhead and make it past those cliffs."

"Well you're doing a piss-poor job, son!" exclaimed the Captain, ducking as an explosion went off only a few yards away, sending masses of sand and dirt down on them. "We're getting _murdered _out here! I lost two thirds of my men just by striking dirt! We're the only ones left out of our whole unit! What the heck are we supposed to do _now_?"

"I don't understand!" confessed one of the soldiers, shouting over the deafening din of war. "I thought the Krauts were supposed to be weakened by now. What about the bomb run from this morning, and the tidal wave?"

James leaned over, still forced to shout even at that close range, "Intelligence said that the Germans have been reinforcing Normandy for the past several months. I'm sure the wave and the bombs _did _have an effect, but there must be so many people up there, that it only took out an insignificant fraction of them!"

"Where the heck are our armor and tanks?" James asked the Captain. "We were supposed to be reinforced by now!"

"We're all messed up out here!" the Captain responded. "Nobody's where they're supposed to be! The tanks we had are at the bottom of the Channel by now, and everything else wound up a couple miles down the beach! We're on our own!"

James' heart sank. They had been depending on reinforcements, armor, and tanks in order to make it up the beach. Without them they'd be sitting ducks. His attention was then caught by a large group of survivors scrambling up the beach and taking temporary refuge amongst the low sand dunes, where the mortars and machine guns would have more trouble picking them off. If they were going to be truly by themselves until another wave of reinforcements arrived, they'd just have to make the best of it.

"We need to rendezvous with that unit up there," the Patriot shouted, grabbing the Captain by his collar and pointing. "We have to make room for the next wave, and try to make some headway up that beach. If we can't punch through now, the entire invasion will collapse in on itself!"

"Roger that!" shouted the Captain. "Get up that beach, soldiers! If we wait here, we're all dead men!"

With that, the Patriot and his companions picked themselves up and made a run for it across the sand. Bullets flew past them so close he could hear their sharp whine through the air. Explosions blew dirt and debris across the field, slowing their progress. All James could hear was his own ragged, desperate breathing as they grew closer and closer to the dune and the relative safety that it offered.

As they approached cover, a massiveexplosion enveloped James and the small group of survivors. His world turned upside down as he was thrown through the air. His head was filled with a deafening ringing noise as he scrambled up, throwing himself into the nearest ditch before even bothering to take stock of survivors. The world around him still leaning at a crazy angle, he noticed the Captain dragging himself toward him, but the other two hadn't made it. One of them had been completely obliterated, his body ripped to shreds by the impact of the mortar and his insides splayed out around him. The other one had also not fared well, he was screaming and shrieking, his hands gripping what remained of his left leg as tightly as he could, ragged tendrils of flesh and blood hanging off his splintered bones. The Patriot looked away from the grisly scene while a medic crawled to the victim, immediately producing a syringe of morphine for the hapless soldier.

"God dammit!" shouted the Captain, punching the ground again and again. "My whole goddamn unit! God _damn_ it! God DAMN it!"

While the Captain, who had clearly begun to lose it, cursed his fate and that of his men, James wildly looked around for his weapon. Even though they were only a few hundred yards from their last hiding place, the beach dunes were almost an entirely different world from the shoreline.

For one thing there weren't as many bodies littering the ground, and they were free from the bloody waves washing up against them every few seconds. Thankfully, they also had a little distance between them and most of the wailing soon-to-be corpses that littered the shallows, which greatly helped him when considering his next move. Medics were more plentiful here as well, which was an encouraging sight. Moreover, while their current position was far from safe, it gave them considerably better cover than the flat surfline. While life expectancy was still disturbingly low, at least they weren't being mowed down in droves. James afforded himself the luxury of a breath, the first one since they'd landed, to steady his nerves.

"Who's in charge here?" he asked, still shouting, but having calmed down a little bit as he scrambled the last several yards towards their forward position and the contingent of men who were waiting there.

"Lieutenant-Corporal Dave Mansfield!" said a soldier laying a foot or two away. "Who the hell are _you _supposed to be? And where the fuck is our backup?"

"Backup ain't comin'!" shouted James. "Tanks and armor are held up or destroyed. Everybody's all mixed up! Does the fleet have an update on the situation?"

"Just got off the radio with 'em a second ago!" the Lieutenant-Corporal replied, cringing as another explosion went off a few meters away. "I made it clear that we do _not_ have the beach and that we need reinforcements. We're getting by on leftovers from all the landed regiments!"

"I'm codenamed the Patriot, special ops out of New York!" shouted James over the noise, flashing the impressive looking insignia that he bore on the sleeve of his tattered uniform for authentication. "I'm gonna get you and your men through this until we're reinforced, okay?"

"Whatever you say, sir," Mansfield acknowledged. "I'll take all the help I can get at this point!"

"Okay, we gotta get as close to those barricades as we can," the Patriot explained. "We're sitting ducks out here! Plus, if we can punch any kind of hole, even a small one, through enemy lines, that might be all our reinforcements need to take this beach! What's the status on ammo here?"

The Lieutenant-Corporal checked his gun, "I think we're almost out, sir. A lot of the men lost their weapons coming ashore."

"See this?" James asked, holding up his firearm. "You can bug this off any dead guy you stumbled across on the way up here. I don't care what you have to do, find some ammo or you're dust, you hear me?"

With that, the survivors scrambled off to salvage what they could from their dead, dying, or crippled comrades. James crouched down ever farther behind the dune as fresh screams and moans sounded off from the beach. Soldiers were prying guns and ammo from the lifeless clutches of dead men, ripping them away from the corpses of their fallen allies. It was barbaric and disrespectful...but they had no choice. If they didn't want to join their fallen friends, they were going to need to defend themselves.

It didn't take long for the desperate group to reunite around the Patriot, "Now look, we got about a hundred yards of beach between us and those cliffs. We need to get over there, but we're gonna be exposed and it's not gonna be easy. Plus, who knows how many bombs or mines are waiting for us on the beach. We got any bangers?"

Bangers, or bangalore charges, were essentially explosives attached to the end of long poles. They were used to detonate any mines or traps that could be in the way of the soldiers, and were a common sight on the modern battlefield. As the men looked around for the requesite charges, James examined the ground they would have to cover. It didn't look good. The Nazis could mow them down almost at their leisure as they charged, even without the traps that they had undoubtedly placed in their way.

"Heavy equipment's comin' up short, sir!" shouted Mansfield. "But Clemens here managed to save one banger."

James scooted over to make room for Clemens, a young man with a wild, panicked look in his eyes who was clutching the elongated banger pole tightly in his hands, "Okay, that should do," said the Patriot, examining the explosive as the whistle of a bullet flew by perilously close to his head. "It may not entirely clear the whole area, but the blast should buy us enough cover to help us until we get to high ground. Let's get it done!"

The men cowered into the sand dune, nearly burrowing down through the sand in their efforts to shield themselves from their own explosive charge. James hunkered down as well, holding his helmet tighter onto his head, praying it would be enough to protect him. Clemens was sweating profusely by now, his tongue poking out from between his lips as he concentrated on slowly and methodically sliding the banger pole as far away from their wall of protective sand as possible before detonation.

Time seemed to once again stand still as James waited with baited breath for the banger to go off. Everything seemed to be going fine until he heard, just for the briefest instant, the whine of an approaching mortar. The Patriot barely had time to even register the sound, his heart sinking somewhere down into his stomach, before the deadly projectile made contact.

Huddling in the sand and presenting as small a target he could, James gritted his teeth together as the deafening explosion engulfed their ragged band of survivors. The bangalore charge instantly went off, snapping the pole in half and launching Clemens away through the air, his body landing like a rag-doll several meters away, limbs hanging from him at strange angles, not moving an inch.

"Shit!" shouted Mansfield, his face a scarred mess and his eyes wide with horror as they took in the body of his friend. "What the hell do we do now?"

The survivors were still recuperating, bringing their weapons to bear as they huddled behind the small dune. More and more were slowly being shot down by random bullets that hit their targets by pure unlucky happenstance. In a few minutes, even that small squad of survivors would be devastated. If the Patriot couldn't think of something fast, they would all be dead men.

Frantically James looked around for something, _anything _that could help them. But all he could see was the bodies of those who had fallen to the Germans. He could see medics crawling across the beach in a vain attempt to save the lives of men they all knew wouldn't make it. He saw people cursing and crying, laying prostrate on the beach, the horror of the battle proving too much for them to handle. He saw mere boys, still in their teens, huddled in the fetal position in the sand, rocking back and forth, doing little more than waiting for death to come to them. He saw severed limbs and body parts, half buried in the dirt; and he saw the lifeless faces of soldiers who were alive only an hour ago, staring at him from the beach, each one a son, a father, a brother, who had been capable of loving and laughing...and now that potential had been violently ripped from them forever.

The Patriot turned to stare at the cliffside hanging over them, raining death down on the soldiers whose lives now depended on him alone. They had no cover, little ammunition, and a hundred yards of clear, unobstructed beach between them and the only hope they had of survival. Huddled against the low rocks of the cliffs, immediately beneath the concrete bunkers that the Germans were hidden in, they would be impervious to the heavy armaments that had cut them down so thoroughly, and they _might _even find themselves in a position to do some damage as well. But if they couldn't reach it, the whole thing was pointless. Huddled down in the sand the Patriot and his men were essentially corpses just waiting to happen.

James' eyes hardened with determination as his grip tightened on his gun. There was only one thing they _could _do. Even if they were to be decimated during a desperate charge towards the enemy stronghold, it was their only shot at _some _of them surviving. He would have to lead them on that charge, even though he would be helpless to do anything but _pray _that he would still be alive long enough to reach the other side. A cold sweat seemed to break out across his entire body as he trembled from his vantage point behind the dune. For a brief second the thought of retreat flashed across his mind, but the inclination vanished almost instantly. This invasion was their _one _chance to turn the tide of the war. If they didn't take this chance, there would be no one left to turn to. If he was going to die, he would do so like an Invader should, proudly fighting on his feet rather than cowering in a hole.

He had just opened his mouth to issue the order when he heard a high pitched shout from one of the men, "Look! Look at the beach!"

James turned around to see what the commotion could be, and after a moment he noticed a single transport blasting its way across the turbulent, crimson stained waters towards the shore. He couldn't guess how, but it was traveling at double, or even _triple _the speed of a normal transport. It was difficult to even make out how many people were inside, but when he had managed to discern who the passengers were, his heart nearly stopped beating in his chest.

"What in the world is going on?" Lieutenant-Corporal Mansfield said in a half whisper.

James couldn't have managed a response even if he had wanted too, because somehow he knew that the next minute would be burned into his mind forever.

The transport didn't bother slowing down, even as it drew dangerously close to the coastline. As bullets descended upon its metallic shell it ran aground on the beach, splashing blood clotted water over the bodies of the slain. Then, without even waiting for the landing ramp to be lowered, three men leaped out of the vessel and began tearing across the expanse of beach heading straight for the cliffside.

Out in plain view, completely exposed, and not seeming to give a damn about any of it, were the Invaders Ronin and the Black Panther, running on either side of Captain America himself. Charging fearlessly up the beach, feet pounding against the sand and a determined, grim expression on each of their faces, the three heroes would define an entire generation as they struck a legendary image, three titans against a backdrop of carnage, single handedly attacking an entire entrenched German platoon, bravely striving against all odds. Little did they know that a cameraman who had come ashore with the soldiers and had been hiding under the corpses of the rest of his squad, would catch the whole thing on film, and that those images would become some of the most famous and recognizable pictures on the planet in only a few short weeks.

But the Invaders weren't concerned with any of that. Their minds fully focused on their herculean task, Ronin, Black Panther, and Captain America sprinted up the beach as fast as they could, regardless of the dangers in their way.

Their unusual and flashy uniforms immediately served their purpose, catching the attention of what seemed to be the entire Nazi force. As all eyes turned to them, bullets and ordnance began raining down on their position with such intensity that it became almost impossible to make them out anymore through the cloud of destruction.

James' breath caught in his throat as the first rounds found their mark. Captain America swiftly raised his shield to cover them, with Ronin and the Panther running as close as they could to his side. While this protected them from most of the incoming fire, the shield just wasn't large enough to guard three fully grown men from that many enemies. As they ran, the samurai and the king drew their blades, spinning them in circular patterns in front of their bodies so quickly that the weapons appeared almost invisible to the naked eye. James and his men were dazzled by this display of skill, but even that was not enough to save them from the German onslaught.

As the Invaders continued to make their way across the beachhead, both the Panther and Ronin found themselves being hit by stray bullets that managed to pierce their defenses, but they continued pushing onward. James could tell that the Panther's uniform, which had been heavily laced with vibranium, was absorbing most of the impact that the bullets produced, meaning that T'Chaka received almost no injury when he was hit.

Logan however, was not so lucky. He was protected only by his ornate kimono and was relying on Steve's shield along with his own masterful swordsmanship to deflect incoming fire to see him through the fight. However, even when he took a shell, causing him to momentarily stagger backward with the force of the impact, he kept advancing with his teammates, drawing ever closer to the enemy position.

From his hiding place behind the dune, James was staggeredby his teammate's performance. It was clear that Logan was in a _lot _of pain. He was certainly the most vulnerable, but his body immediately began healing itself in the most disturbing fashion as soon as he was hit, allowing him to continue struggling to move forward. James couldn't imaginethe agony that Ronin must have been experiencing, but, blinded as he must have been by the sheer, white hot pain that he felt, never halted his advance.

Suddenly another high pitched whistle pierced the sky. Captain America barely had time to shout a warning before the mortar projectile exploded just in front of the group. As the three heroes were enveloped in sand and flames, James caught a brief sight of their bodies flying through the air before they were lost to him. Mortars took time and skill to aim, so a small group of swiftly moving elite soldiers was not an easy target, but one mortar team must have gotten lucky, and the entire battlefield seemed to hold its breath while the smoke cleared from the explosion.

As the flames subsided, the entire battlefront could see the Invaders crouching behind Captain America's indestructible shield, which was now a bit blackened by explosive residue, but otherwise unscathed. And while the Invaders' uniforms were torn and tattered, and cuts and bruises crisscrossed their bodies, their spirits were still resolute. An expression of determined fury was embedded on Steve Rogers' features. Behind him, the Black Panther held his ground, his double bladed spear held threateningly in front of them. Bringing up the rear was Ronin, crouching down and holding his side, raggedly gasping for breath as blood soaked his robes as well as the ground beneath his feet.

The men crouched around James were just as awed as he was. They had been torn to shreds, thousands of soldiers had lost their lives just barely holding onto the ground that these elite heroes had crossed in mere minutes. Who were these new indestructable men who dared to storm the beach? Could it be that they weren't human at all, but some kind of titan or godlike figure who had descended to Earth? The scene unfolding before them was so unlike anything they had ever experienced that it was difficult for them to process it at all. And James was forced to agree with them.

As the Germans, who seemed almost as amazed as their foes were, paused their assault to marvel at the sight before them, Captain America stood up in one smooth motion, pointed at the concrete cliffside, and uttered one phrase, his strong, clear voice ringing over the killing field like a bell, "Charge!"

Suddenly, taking James completely by surprise, a deafening cheer rang out across the beach from the mouths of the soldiers who only minutes ago had been paralyzed by fear and horror. They were ecstatic; rooting for the Invaders who seemed to personify the strength of their nation whch they had laid down their lives to defend.

Ronin and the Black Panther instantly shot out from behind the cover of Steve's triangular shield, bolting the last dozen meters to the base of the cliff. Captain America was right on their heels as Logan began climbing up the nearest path between the nearest Nazi bunkers, leaving a trail of blood to mark his way. The Panther didn't even bother with the narrow cliffside paths. He just leaped at the the base of the nearest bunker and began clawing his way straight up, his razor sharp vibranium talons sinking into the rock and concrete easily.

The ruckus caused by the soldiers continued as the three Invaders made it to the top of the cliff and the sounds of gunfire renewed. Within only a few moments panicked and terrified screams began sounding from inside the concrete bunkers as bodies began falling from the windows facing the surf. Suddenly the battle had taken on a whole new meaning. The cliffs had been taken, and as James looked out across the channel again he noticed that the next wave of reinforcements was only a minute or two away.

The bunkers were being overrun, at least temporarily. If the soldiers were going to advance inland it had to be now or never.

"Come on men, what are you waiting for?" the Patriot shouted, standing up over the dune and calling out across the beach. "You ladies wanna live forever?"

And with that, a roar of defiance rose from the bloodstained sands as hundreds of survivors hoisted their arms and rushed the German occupied cliffs of Normandy.


	24. Chapter 24

The Age of Marvels: Chapter Twenty Four

Captain America

and the

Invaders

Part Twenty Four

_**During the darkest days of World War II, America stood united against the threat of the Nazi Germany war machine. Our Greatest Generation sacrificed everything in order to stem the forces of oppression from overrunning our very planet, led under the fearless banner of the greatest hero of our time, Captain America. Inspired by his courageous example, and with the aid of his misfit band of Invaders, Captain America led the forces of freedom to victory, changing his world forever.**_

New Jersey

The home of Mr. Barnes

It was now very, very early in the morning in the Barnes house. It seemed to the two men sitting there that they were the only ones on Earth at the time. It was the loneliest feeling in the world. Each one felt isolated and alone, consumed by their own emotions and memories. Colonel Fury stared across the room, as if seeing Mr. Barnes clearly for the first time. He was a ragged, shriveled old husk of a man. The vibrant, witty character who still lived in his memories had long been lost to the all consuming mists of the past. His eyes, as they stared out into nothingness, appeared to have lost all vestiges of life and were now empty, soulless, and devoid of the very spark of existence.

Fury shivered despite himself. He had seen a lot, and had done more in his years than many men ever dreamed possible...but he had never seen eyes like those. Those eyes were enduring and haunting...like staring into the eyes of a ghost.

"The rest of that battle was like nothing the world had ever seen," continued the ghost, his voice resonating with a hollow, raspy tone. "Who knows what would have happened if the Invaders hadn't been there, but I do know one thing. The bravery and sacrifices of those soldiers on that battlefield made them every bit as heroic as Captain America ever was. The Invaders weren't the only warriors who would become legend that day..."

June 6th, 1944

Omaha Beach, Normandy, France

Captain America didn't even bother pausing for breath when he reached the top of the hill. Heading for the nearest bunker, he scooped up a heavy rock as he leaped inside. His eyes adjusted instantly to the dim light within, as it barely illuminated the concrete stronghold through the single long window facing the beach. Before the dozen or so Nazis inside even knew what hit them, he had thrown the rock with all his might at the nearest trooper, dropping him to the ground, unconscious, even despite the protection his helmet offered. By the time the others noticed what happened and began bringing their arms to bear, it was too late.

Captain America was on them like a force of nature. None of their bullets could pierce the defense his expertly wielded triangular shield could offer. Fighting without pause, without mercy, the super soldier dispatched the entire unit singlehandedly, and without even a scratch to show for it, he ended the battle in a matter of seconds. The screams of the soldiers dying in their concrete tomb where they had spent their last moments alive had fallen on deaf ears.

Steve emerged from the bunker, crouching behind the protection of the walkway above and blinked as the chill wind whipped about his face. He could tell from the shrieking that Ronin and Black Panther were carrying out their own fierce battles inside the neighboring bunkers. Peering over the walkway, he knew that he would only have a moment or two to collect himself. The Invader's advance had caught quite a bit of attention as they'd charged the beach, and the entire assembled German force was marching towards them, bearing down on their exact position. If they couldn't come up with some kind of plan, even Steve and his allies would be overrun by the sheer weight of the Nazi attack.

But that was no reason to panic. Taking advantage of the momentary quiet, Steve took a second to take stock of his situation. His uniform was already torn and tattered in any number of places. His shield had done an amazing job protecting him from any serious injuries during the charge, but he had still taken quite a beating on the beach. He was clearly bleeding from several moderate injuries, but it was nothing he couldn't ignore until the end of the battle. He had to be strong, now more than ever, if they were going to make it through this day alive. The Invaders needed him, and what soldiers who still drew breath needed the Invaders. Everything hinged on Steve Rogers' leadership, and he would be damned if he was going to let his country down.

As Steve steeled himself for battle, he couldn't help but wonder how James was doing. He had been assigned to lead the frontal assault upon the beach. After all, that was where his skills would prove the most useful; but it had been clear during their charge up towards the cliff that they had not fared well at all. Communication was down and half the armed forces had landed somewhere farther down the coast, completely cut off from where they were supposed to be. The chilling scene of utter carnage and death spoke for itself...the first wave had been ripped to shreds. There was no telling how many survivors there were, or if any of them were still able to fight at all. James would still be somewhere among them, dead or alive.

Captain America shook his head, raising his shield in preparation for the upcoming fight. This was no time to worry for James. He was one of the best trained soldiers the nation had ever produced, and was as tough as nails and resourceful as they came. If it was possible for _anyone _to have survived the boodbath below, James would have found a way. Steve prayedthat James found a way.

Steve pushed those thoughts out of his mind as he heard the scrape of heavy boots just above his hiding place. Without a moment's hesitation he leaped out of the trench, bringing his foot around to smash the face of the nearest Nazi soldier, instantly knocking him to the ground. Cries of alarm rang out from the entire unit, as Captain America tore through them relentlessly, paying no mind to the bullets that he easily deflected with his shield. The German fire did nothing to slow his advance as he quickly dispatched the opposition before him.

While he ripped through the unit he noticed one of the last standing Nazis shouting into his radio in a panicked frenzy. As Cap grabbed the throat of the nearest German, slamming him face first into the dirt, he threw his shield at the communications officer as hard as he could, dropping the unfortunate soldier right where he stood.

Taking a moment to collect himself, Captain America could see Logan and T'Chaka down the way, finishing off their own foes. So far things were proceeding well, but he knew they would soon be in for more trouble. There was no way the Invaders could take on the entire German force by themselves. There were just too many of them. All the Invaders could do was cause enough of a distraction to allow their main group of soldiers to regroup and advance, paving the way for the men and allowing them to overcome the now weakened German opposition.

Unfortunately, that meant that the three Invaders would soon be staring down the barrel of the entirety of the Nazi's ranks...and he didn't think they had what it took to survive such an encounter. Already he could see the Germans massing in the distance, heavy artillery and tanks among their numbers. The Invaders weren't at their full strength. They were scattered, wounded, and running out of steam. But if the Allied men were not able to back them up, then their duty was to give them as much time as they needed to secure the beaches of Normandy...even if it cost them their lives.

Taking a deep breath, Steve reminded himself that sooner or later, reinforcements would be on their way. If the Invaders could just buy the Allies a few more minutes, it could mean the difference between winning and losing the beach.

Captain America looked across the cliffs of Normandy, catching the eyes of his teammates. Ronin and the Panther returned his gaze, standing amidst the bodies of those they had slain, bloodstained and tattered uniforms draped over their torn skin. They knew what was going to happen next, and they had accepted their fate. If this was to be the final charge of the Invaders, then they were going to make it one for the history books.

Steve opened his mouth to yell, "Charge!" but his voice seemed to have been replaced by that of someone else.

Caught by surprise, Captain America turned to see hundreds of Allied soldiers cresting the cliff. Raising their voices to a fervent crescendo, those blasted and wounded men swarmed over the cliff in droves, immediately setting upon the advancing German troops with a zealous savagery that the Invaders had never seen before. The noise of gunfire from both sides echoed like thunder as the two armies clashed together in opposing waves, bullets and blood flowing freely in the maddening rush of battle.

"Why don't you pick yer jaw up off the ground, Scab? We got work to do," said a familiar voice from behind.

Steve turned to see James standing atop the cliff, weapon held in his bloody hands as his tattered uniform twisted in the wind. Everything else around him seemed to fade into the background for Steve as he turned to embrace his friend in the biggest hug he could muster, lifting poor James clear off the ground in his wild joy.

"Hey, take it easy ya big lug!" James protested, straining to breathe. "I think I've taken shrapnel that's less painful than this!"

Steve put his best friend back down, placing both hands on his shoulders, "Thank God you're alive, James! I...I don't..."

"Yeah Steve, I know..." James interrupted, surprised to find himself so emotional. "It's okay. I'm fine."

"That is good to hear, because we need all the help we can get," said the Black Panther, approaching from the left with Ronin in tow. "While we appreciate the assistance from you and your men, I fear that without our aid they will be quickly routed. They are outnumbered, outgunned, and exhausted. If we are to hold this beach we must hurry to save them."

"Don't worry too much, T'Chaka," James replied, trying to keep things light. "Our next wave of reinforcements just hit the surf. They'll be here in a few minutes. All we need to do is hold on until then, and Omaha is ours for the taking."

"I do not think it will be that simple, my friend," Logan said, speaking up for the first time, his voice ragged with fatigue.

"What do you mean?" Steve asked, his attention fixed squarely on the samurai.

Logan had been nearly doubled over, multiple wounds carving deep scars throughout his body. He had easily taken the most damage charging up the beach, his once regal kimono doing little to shield him from incoming fire. However, his healing factor was doing a remarkable job patching him up, straining as it was to keep up with the many lacerations and cuts that were certainly taking their toll on his system. Despite it all, Logan still refused to give in. Although he had to try twice as hard to keep up with his relatively unscathed teammates, he did so without complaint. He considered it an honor to fight alongside such worthy comrades, and he would shoulder his responsibility gladly as long as his body was able, or die with honor, as he had been trained to do over a generation ago in Japan.

Logan simply pointed past the battle that was currently raging before them, on to the low hills that made up the horizon in the distance. The small group of Invaders peered across the countryside as they attempted to make out what Ronin was referring to, and their hearts sank, overcome with paralyzing fear by the sight that met them.

"What...are those?" James whispered in a hushed voice, his eyes wide with astonishment.

Off in the distance at the opposite end of the battle, stood at least a hundred silhouettes atop the small hills of coastal France. But these men, even at that distance, were clearly unlike any ever seen before. Each one stood at least ten full feet in height, and were extremely heavily built. Steve estimated that each must weigh _hundreds _of pounds, each pound made up of pure, hardened muscle. It was a sight he would never forget.

Suddenly, with a mighty roar that could be heard even over the deafening cacophony of battle, the figures charged forward. The Invaders instinctively adopted a defensive posture as the figures grew more and more into focus as they charged.

Each one was completely bald, with small, beady red eyes which were livid with rage. Their teeth were elongated and sharpened, like an animal. Their rippling muscles were almost inhumanely large, and were easily seen as none of them were wearing shirts, just dark tan pants which were sometimes torn and ragged in places. Their feet were _massive_, pounding the ground below them relentlessly despite the fact that they wore no shoes. Their eyes were large and unblinking, crisscrossed with bulging red veins while they seemed almost to glow with a mindless, raging insanity and animalistic bloodlust. It became clear that whoever they had once been, now all that remained was a savage killing machine, all but bereft of intelligence or self awareness as they gnashed their razor teeth amidst rivulets of drool that escaped their gaping maws. They were little more than beasts, now.

Perhaps their most disturbing feature was that each one bore a giant swastika symbol on their chests. At first Steve thought they had been tattooed on, but as they drew even closer he could tell that the symbols had not been tattooed, they had been _carved_. It was as if someone had taken an enormous knife and sliced the swastikas into their chests, a permanent reminder of who they belonged to and what they represented, during some barbaric, unbearably painful ritual.

"Oh my god..." James whispered, his voice beginning to rise with panicked fear. "They're monsters. Steve...they're monsters! Where the heck did they come from? What are we going to do?"

A grim expression of determination took hold of Steve's features as he brought his shield to bear, "The stolen super soldier serum, the vial that the Red Skull escaped with back in New York. It's the only explanation for those...things."

James was almost too shocked for words, "But, I don't understand..." he stuttered. "How could the serum produce something like...that? If Schmidt used the serum on them, how come they didn't turn out like you?"

Steve shook his head, his expression grim, "I don't know, James. Maybe they experimented with the original formula and failed. Maybe their equipment was less advanced than what we had at Project Rebirth. Heck, maybe Schmidt even _prefers _these animals rather than the super soldiers we were trying to train back in the States. I wouldn't put it past him."

"But that doesn't matter now," Steve continued, his voice dangerously low. "Now we need to protect our men. We intercept those things before they reach the battle. They'll tear our troops apart if they get the chance, and we're the only ones who can stop them."

"_Stop _them? Nobody can stop that!" James exclaimed, eyes wild with dispair.

"Courage, brother," T'Chaka replied, placing his hand on James' shoulder. "We each must die one day. If that day is to be now, I can think of no better way to perish than by defending our countries. Don't you agree?"

James gulped, glancing over at Steve with distress.

Captain America nodded, "This is what we were trained for, James."

"Yeah...okay..." the Patriot nodded, clutching his gun.

"The time for debate is finished," said Logan, drawing his bloodied sword. "If we are to act, it must be now."

"Invaders, CHARGE!" Captain America shouted, raising his shield high into the air.

Sprinting past the terrible battle of Allied and Axis soldiers, the Invaders rushed towards the oncoming line of beast men. For a fraction of a second, the heroes could see their misshapen enemies in terrifying clarity. Their bloodshot eyes were stained with madness. Pulsating veins crisscrossed their bulging muscles. Their flesh was riddled with scars scabbed tears, as if stretched across too much muscle. Steve had no idea what these things were or where they came from, but he was going to make sure that their threat ended that day.

The Invaders clashed against the titans with a blow that shook the very ground beneath their feet. Bellows and roars could be heard from the monstrous giants as they began engaging the heroes with savage fury. Captain America's world erupted into a miasma of chaos and blood, but he refused to let the situation get the better of him. Trusting in the training he'd received at Project Rebirth, he let his body do the thinking and relied on his instincts.

Fists and limbs flew through the air all around him. Captain America began ducking and weaving, dodging his way through the jungle of attacks as only the super soldier could. His mind was on autopilot, not able to think more than an instant ahead at any given moment, stretching his senses as far as he could for any sign of weakness or opportunity to strike. Before long he found himself at the other end of the fight, surrounded by a group of four or five titans who were lunging at him in a rage.

Having gotten more of a grasp of the situation, Steve's mind began to race. He found it increasingly easier to avoid the giant's attacks. Strong as they were, they lacked speed and coordination, something that Steve found he could easily exploit. As the battle continued Steve began analyzing their advances, and quickly came to a shocking conclusion.

The beast men couldn't communicate or coordinate their attacks in any way. They merely roared and bellowed amongst one another, grunting with the exertion of their efforts. Furthermore, they were easily predictable, as if they had undergone no hand to hand combat training whatsoever. Instead, they fought like enraged animals, incredibly powerful and dangerous, but easily read and even manipulated. Steve began to get the sense that if these things had ever been men, their minds had somehow been utterly destroyed, and they were now mere beings of tortured instinct.

"They're animals!" Steve heard the Black Panther shout over the battle. "They fight without strategy or intellect!"

"Yes, but their strength is unmatched!" Ronin responded, slicing the hand off of the nearest one as he leaped backwards to put some distance between himself and his foe.

The titan roared in pain, but continued struggling, barely noticing the lack of his hand, "They continue to fight despite the damage they bear! How are we to stop them?"

"I don't know!" replied the Patriot, running from one giant to the next, guns blazing as he dodged his opponents as best as he could. "I shot one in the chest, point blank, and he just kept coming! It's like they don't feel pain at all!"

"There has to be some way to stop them!" shouted Captain America, grunting with pain as he shielded himself from an enormous fist, nearly driven to his knees by the force of the impact. "They may not feel pain, but they're slow and easily anticipated. We need to think of a strategy _now _orwe won't be able to distract them for much longer."

As one of the beast men reached for him, the Black Panther expertly dodged its grasp, sliding behind it before the thing registered what was happening. As it began to turn, the Panther ran up its back and jumped into the air. While he soared into a graceful backflip, T'Chaka twirled his double-bladed, vibranium spear around at blinding speed, and when he landed, the ogre's head had been lopped off and was rolling at his feet. As the Black Panther rose, the body of the monster fell to the ground with a resounding thud, raising a cloud of dust about the Panther.

"The head!" James shouted through the hail of bullets unleashed from his gun. "You've gotta get 'em in the head! That's their weak point!"

"It matters little that they feel no pain," said Logan, springing through the air and with a flash of his katana, felling one of the beasts with one swipe through the neck as its head landed several meters away, an expression of surprise still on its face. "This is indeed a sound strategy."

"Concentrate, people!" Steve shouted, dodging an incoming blow, twisting around, and jamming his shield into the enemy's skull with crushing force. "This fight's not over yet! Give 'em hell!"

As the conflict raged on, the titan's numbers began dropping at an alarming rate. Despite their overwhelming numbers and amazing strength, it was rare for any of them to actually land a blow. Their sheer numbers against a small force like the Invaders seemed to work against them, as they were easily confused and would often lose track of their enemies as they moved with lightning speed through the fight, lopping off, shooting through, or bludgeoning enemy skulls along their way. Before long, the titan's forces had dropped by almost half, their engorged bodies littering the ground in piles which were beginning to make it difficult to move freely.

A dull roar in the background caused Captain America to flinch, "What's that noise?" he asked, crushing the skull of yet another monstrosity.

Turning towards the source of the noise, Logan replied, "It's the reinforcements! They've arrived!"

As a fresh wave of troops rose to the top of the cliffs with a mighty roar, and charged into the battle in the nick of time, the front Nazi lines found themselves completely overwhelmed. The original men who had first landed with James were finally able to breathe a sigh of relief. Impassioned though they were, they had been utterly spent, their numbers reduced to a small fraction of their original strength, and wouldn't have lasted any longer than another minute or two at most against their foes.

The German ranks, astonished thought they were, found themselves giving way under this new onslaught. They had been taken completely by surprise by the resolve of the Allied forces. Try as they might, they had still been taking moderate losses fighting against the weakened first wave of Allied opponents, and although victory was within sight, they were not prepared to handle such a large group of fresh reinforcements. They had been depending on their monstrous horde for support, but having been matched by the strength and fortitude of the Invaders, they had been unable to give aid to the entrenched Nazi soldiers. The battle for Normandy had turned.

But as Ronin spared a moment to observe the tide of war, he missed the ogre that was approaching his position. Logan tried to turn and raise his blade against the monster, but in his weakened and fatigued state, he was too late. The titan's massive fist slammed into the samurai's chest, sending him flying backwards to crash to the ground.

The beast man growled in triumph as he thundered towards the fallen samurai. Ronin struggled to get up, but he knew that he would not be fast enough. His body had taken too much punishment during their charge across the beach. He was bleeding internally, his body was riddled with bullet wounds, and now several of his ribs and his chest cage were broken and fractured. He was having trouble breathing, and he couldn't feel one of his arms at all.

Logan managed to lift himself to his knees, barely grasping the hilt of his sword with his numb, shaking fingers. The sound of his own ragged, halting breath echoed in his ears as his vision became fuzzy and dark. He was aware that the monster was running towards him, gorilla-like fists raised to strike. If those were to be his last seconds on Earth, then at least he could say that he was proud of the life he had lived. Soon he would join the rest of his fallen samurai comrades in the afterlife and would be awarded a hero's welcome.

Logan closed his eyes as the world around him exploded with the impact of the monster's blow. Sand and rocks flew across the sky like shrapnel through his dizzying, twirling vision as his body was hurled several yards away, rolling painfully across the ground before finally coming to a stop.

As the dust settled, the old warrior realized that his eyes were still open. The sound of battle still resounded in his ears, and he could taste his own blood in his mouth. If this was what death was like, then he had been seriously misinformed.

"Do...take your...time...getting up," said a tired, wheezing voice from above Logan. "Or...are you not...done...napping yet?"

Ronin shakily raised himself up to his knees, gasping for breath. He found that he had been laying in the center of a freshly made, extremely large crater, the dust of the crater's impact still wafting through the air. At the center of the hole, barely able to support his own weight, was King Namor the Sub-Mariner. The Atlantean monarch must have flown himself all the way from the Channel in order to join the fight, and had arrived just in time to save his friend.

The ogre who had attacked Logan was now barely moving, stunned as he had been from the human missile that had struck him, "How does one rid himself of these...monstrosities," asked the King, who had reached down and now had the titan caught in a stranglehold.

"You must...remove...the head," answered Logan, who had finally succeeded in tentatively rising again.

"Ah, I see," Namor replied, and with a sickening squelching sound he twisted the head from the beast man's body. "How...perfectly...repulsive," he added, still breathing hard from his flight.

Ronin made his way to his rescuer, taking a defensive position back to back as they soon found themselves surrounded by yet another wave of the creatures, "You have saved my life, my friend, and I am grateful to you. But I thought that you would have to remain far from the battle this day."

The King replied in a shaky voice, "It is true that my strength is nearly spent. The tidal wave that I produced with the help of my minions required that I work through the night, and it took a great deal of effort to produce. Furthermore, you know that it was I who pushed the transport vessel containing you, Captain America, and the Black Panther to the shore at a great enough speed to allow you to exit without danger. And though they may be crude, the ships are quite heavy, it taxed me greatly to use my already depleted strength to such an extent."

"Then would it not be safer for you to simply recuperate on one of the battleships in the Channel?" Logan asked, eyeing the remaining ogres warily as they advanced.

"And miss the greatest battle of this generation? Nonsense!" snorted Namor, somehow managing to sound disdainful despite his utter exhaustion. "I may be at only a fraction of my full might, but the ruler of Atlantis has not yet outlived his usefulness."

"Then let us work together as one," suggested Logan, preparing to strike. "Perhaps in that way our combined strength may achieve the effectiveness of _one _fullycapable Invader."

"Agreed," nodded the Atlantean; then, leaping into the fray with Logan at his side he shouted, "Imperius Rex!"

"How would you say we are doing?" the Black Panther asked, swinging his spear about him madly in an effort to stave off the titans who surrounded him.

Captain America delivered a strong kick to the torso of the nearest giant, stunning it, and used his momentary advantage to kill it with a crushing blow to its face with his shield before answering, "Not well. It won't be long before these monsters overwhelm us with the sheer weight of their numbers. If the situation doesn't change soon, we're dead men."

The Panther slashed the head clean off another one of the enormous foes, "Surely you don't mean that, Captain. Are we not holding our own? Have we not nearly decimated their force?"

Steve barely dodged another herculean strike as he replied, "We're running on empty, Panther. We just don't have enough energy left to withstand an attack of this magnitude. We're holding on by a thread, and if even _one _of us should fall, the situation will deteriorate within a matter of seconds."

The super soldier dispatched another foe before focusing his attention on a new one, "Our only choice is a temporary tactical retreat. We need to extricate ourselves from the battle, get some distance, and regroup. We can trust the reinforcements to hold the line, so get back in the battle as soon as we are able. We're not doing anyone any good out here."

The Wakandan King nodded, not an easy task as he was struggling against one of the titans, "I shall retrieve Ronin and the Sub-Mariner. Meet me behind the lines at the bunkers overlooking the cliffs and we shall discuss our next move."

Steve was about to agree when his voice was cut off by T'Chaka's, "Watch out!"

He heard it before he could do anything else. That telltale high pitched whistle that meant a mortar was about to drop somewhere near their position. He only had a second, maybe two, to get to cover before it fell...but it was already too late. He had just succeeded in raising his shield to cover his face, ignoring any and all of the monstrous man beasts around him, before the mortar exploded.

It couldn't have fallen any more than a few feet away, and as the world became nothing but screeching, deafening pain around him, the force of the explosion hit the super soldier as a solid wall.

Captain America was picked up and thrown through the air like a rag doll. He had no idea how he managed to keep his shield upright in front of him, but it was surely the only thing that kept him from instant death that day. For one sickening moment he couldn't breathe, he couldn't see, there was no way to know whether he was alive or dead.

Gradually, for an instant that seemed to span an eternity, Steve Rogers forced himself to open his eyes. That familiar, agonizing ringing through his brain gave him the confirmation he needed that he still drew breath. He couldn't feel his limbs or his body, but the splitting, crippling ache in his head meant that something was still working, if not completely correctly. He was about to entertain the thought of trying to get up, when he felt something hard and heavy land solidly on his back.

Slowly, he began to hear a muffled but distinct sound amidst the background of white noise, and he realized that someone was talking to him. As the sound became more clear, he came to the conclusion that it wasn't one of his teammates. It wasn't even anyone remotely friendly. And in one stark moment of crystal clarity, he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt who had him pinned down, helpless and defenseless, in the dirt of Normandy.

"Well well, Rogers. Fancy meeting _you _here. Tell me, what do you think of my little army of monstrous, mindless lab rat soldiers? Pretty effective, wouldn't you say?"

Steve could barely believe his ears, the Red Skull had returned.


	25. Chapter 25

The Age of Marvels: Chapter Twenty Five

Captain America

and the

Invaders

Part Twenty Five

_** During the darkest days of World War II, America stood united against the threat of the Nazi Germany war machine. Our Greatest Generation sacrificed everything in order to stem the forces of oppression from overrunning our very planet, led under the fearless banner of the greatest hero of our time, Captain America. Inspired by his courageous example, and with the aid of his misfit band of Invaders, Captain America led the forces of freedom to victory, changing his world forever.**_

New Jersey

The home of Mr. Barnes

"If I had to pick our darkest moment, the time when all hope seemed to be lost, it would have been that one," the old man continued, speaking quietly into the dark. "The soldiers were either exhausted or bleeding into the sand, my team was barely hanging on by a thread, we were completely surrounded and overwhelmed by monsters that shouldn't even have existed, and now Johann Shmidt, the Red Skull, had returned to hammer the final nail into our coffin."

Colonel Fury shook his head in awe, "I don't understand. Of course history tells us that you won that day...but I don't see how that could be. The odds were so stacked against you that it should have been completely impossible to achieve victory. How could a force that was so demoralized and overpowered ever hope to pull through?"

The old man laughed, "Heh, well it's not like it was easy, Fury," he said, patting the stump on his shoulder where his arm used to be.

The atmosphere suddenly became serious, and it seemed like an eternity passed before Mr. Barnes continued his story, "To be honest, son...it's times like those that you find out what you're really made of. When life throws all it has at you at once, and it seems impossible to go on, you can begin to fight with a strength you didn't even know you had. If there's one thing Steve taught me, it's that the human spirit is a remarkable and unbreakable thing, and when the strength of your body fails you, sometimes the strength of your soul can be enough to see you through to the sunrise."

"That's the kind of power that Captain America inspired in all of us."

June 6th, 1944

Near Omaha Beach, Normandy, France

Johann Shmidt, the Red Skull, placed his enormous hands solidly around Captain America's neck and lifted him bodily off the ground, bringing them face to face, "Steve Rogers, is that you? Fancy meeting you here!" he exclaimed, his voice heavy with sarcasm. "Welcome to France! This is your first time visiting, yes? Are you here on pleasure or business?"

It was impossible to Steve to reply, held by the throat as he was. He had been running on empty before, having just ordered his team to strategically withdraw in order to consolidate the little strength they had left. Now even that option may be lost to them. Long ago he had decided that if his death on the battlefield could serve his country in any way, then he would gladly sacrifice himself, so the thought of death didn't scare him any longer. He had known that today very well might be the day that he would have to pay that terrible price, but somewhere deep inside he had hoped that somehow he could avoid that terrible fate.

That hope was now gone.

The only thing that Steve Rogers could hope for at this point was that he could somehow delay the Skull until his teammates could get to safety. The invasion may have been effectively halted by now, but hopefully they had still managed to establish a beachhead firm enough so that Shmidt and what was left of his monsters couldn't repel them entirely. Eventually they could still claim Normandy...and if it took Captain America's death to accomplish that, so be it.

But the sick irony of Shmidt's ranting wasn't lost on Steve. Rockets, bombs, and mines were exploding across the highlands overlooking the blood stained beach. Men from both sides were screaming and dying in shocking numbers. Horrifying, titanic beast men were overwhelming his teammates, and here stood Johann Shmidt, laughing and carrying on (with his enemy helplessly dangling in his grasp) as if he didn't have a care in the world. An island of insanity amidst the bloodstained landscape.

But now was not the time to be concentrating on those things. Steve had to come up with a way out of this. His energy and stamina had been almost completely used up getting to this point of the battle, so he knew that his end was coming, but he had to keep fighting for the soldiers, for the Invaders...and for James. That was what was most important. The Skull's attention had been keenly focused on Captain America, the rest of the battle be damned. He knew that the Invaders would take this opportunity to regroup and find some way to salvage the rest of the fight. All Steve had to do was distract Shmidt long enough to ensure that his friends were safe.

With that in mind, it was immediately obvious to Steve that Shmidt had clearly gone insane. Instead of taking control of the battle, which would have been his to win at that point, the Skull had instead let it go ahead and run its own course. He wasn't even concerned with it in the least, content as he was just having Steve at his mercy and gloating over him. He had let his own personal vendettas and prejudices take priority, and it was that kind of irrational, single minded pursuit of his own seflish goals that might just allow the Invaders the chance they needed to pull through.

Shmidt's appearance didn't help him seem any less unbalanced. Just like the night he had transformed into the Skull, Johann's body was disproportionately large, covered in bulging muscles that almost seemed to be bursting from his frame. His skin had taken a dark red tone, and was seething with deep scars and bulging veins that ran the length of his entire body, giving him a nightmarish figure.

Completing the traumatizing picture was Shmidt's namesake, what was left of his head. His face appeared to have been almost ripped off, leaving behind a grinning death's head of a skull, which was the same shade of red as his flesh. His bloodshot eyes moved maddeningly around their sockets, never blinking or missing any detail of his surroundings. His naked, bald skull, covered with scars just like the rest of his body, reflected the dark and cunning mind contained within. He was truly a hideous sight to behold.

The uniform he wore reflected his unusual stature, but was still better than the rags that his giants boasted. His dark green officer's pants were held up by a belt with the golden crest of the Nazi party gleaming from its buckle, tucked into the military grade black boots which covered his feet. He wore no shirt, but instead a very large jacket, upon which his many medals and rank insignias glittered in the sunlight. The jacket itself was open, revealing the Skull's chest, upon which had been carved (in what appeared to be a disturbingly painful and masochistic manner) an enormous swastika through the scars that already adorned the area, just like the monstrous brutes he had led into battle.

And if Steve hadn't known any better, he could have sworn that the Red Skull had even grown more gigantic than when last they had met. That night when the two enemies had battled on the docks of New York, while Shmidt had been bigger and stronger that Steve, they had at least been of somewhat comparable stature. But now, the Skull frankly towered over Captain America, totally eclipsing him in terms of size and muscle mass. Now standing several feet taller than the super soldier, he was even larger than the giants he had unleashed upon the unsuspecting Allied forces. Steve had no idea how he'd done it, but Shmidt had somehow become a hulking monstrosity unlike any the world had ever seen.

But he had no time to reflect upon any of that now. Still caught in the inescapable, vice-like grip of the Red Skull, Captain America was now struggling for breath. His failing muscles strained in a vain effort to break Shmidt's iron grip upon his neck, but to no avail. If he couldn't think of something quick, he would surely die before the fight had even begun, and his friends needed every moment he could buy them if they were going to survive the carnage around them. Unfortunately, by then it was almost impossible for Steve to even gasp for air, so hard was the Skull crushing his windpipe. In another moment or two he would pass out completely, and then it would be over for them all.

"You would have been shocked to see the way that France just rolled over and accepted our hospitality," the Skull continued ranting, relishing his foe's helpless misery with glee. "If only the British would acquiesce that graciously, everyone would be a lot happier, don't you agree? Of course, look around you, France's interior decorating is all wrong. All this blood and body parts strewn about haphazardly...ugh! Yes, we'll have to redecorate. I'm thinking a sofa over there, and a nice coffee table with some interesting books in that corner. Oh, I'm sorry! Am I boring you? You look absolutely dreadful, Rogers! Why don't you excuse yourself and freshen up a bit?"

With that, the Skull viciously threw Steve down into the dirt, rocks and shrapnel biting into his skin cruelly. However, he was too busy gasping for breath and blinking away the stars in front of his eyes to notice. Another few seconds in the Skull's grasp and he would have suffocated. Even as he choked down painfully sweet gulps of air he reflected that Shmidt's goal must not be to kill him, at least not immediately...he wanted to play with Steve first.

With terrifying clarity Steve turned to glare at the Red Skull, his heart stopping in his chest as he realized that Shmidt intended to beat him slowly to death, one agonizing blow at a time, leisurely pounding on Steve until every bone in his body had been broken, until he had been literally tenderized to the point that he would be almost unrecognizable as the hero he had once been. And then, only when he was practically begging for death, would the Skull deliver that final blow that he had been anticipating for so long.

As Captain America's face darkened with dread, the Skull's expression brightened like a child at Christmas, and it was one of the most hideous sights Steve had ever witnessed, "Yes, I see that you now understand, Rogers. You were indeed a match for me those months ago in New York. I hadn't yet gotten used to my powers and the pain of my transformation gave you quite the advantage. But as you can see, the Fuhrer's scientists have enhanced and improved upon the serum that your precious Dr. Erskine began. Now I am much stronger and faster than even you could ever hope to be."

"It's too bad the serum didn't work as well on the men who 'volunteered' for the treatment," Shmidt continued, in a slightly more thoughtful tone. "We never could figure out why it drove them mad and erased every last shred of their humanity. Dr. Erskine never revealed the complete formulaic makeup of the serum to me, after all. Unfortunately, the poor things became nothing more than mindless, savage killing machines. We could barely contain or control them, but we didn't have time to perfect the technique, we had to have the savages ready for battle by today. I know you consider yourself the final legacy of your beloved Dr. Erskine, but make no mistake Rogers, once you are dead, Erskine's _true _legacy will live on in these brainless monstrosities, ensuring the continued dominance of the master race for all time."

The Red Skull took a few slow steps towards Steve, who was still doubled over on the ground gasping for breath, "And now, here in the dirt of Normandy, when you are at your weakest and utterly spent, I am going to destroy you, Steve Rogers. We both know how this will end. You are powerless to resist, and your friends cannot aid you. I am going to play with you, slowly breaking you down until there is nothing left. Then, I am going to beat you into unconsciousness. Later, after you have been captured and slowly, agonizingly tortured and interrogated until you have surrendered every drop of information you possess about the Allies, you are going to die alone and forgotten in the darkness of a secret underground bunker in the heart of the Rheinland."

"I hope you spend your last minutes of freedom enjoying the knowledge that you have finally, completely failed your beloved country for the last time, Rogers," Shmidt said as he prepared to deliver his first, bone shattering blow.

"Never!" Steve shouted, blasting up from the dirt with his shield already poised to strike.

With a ferocity that Steve wasn't even aware he still had, he lashed out at the Skull, tearing into him with an animalistic strength that defied belief. Shmidt couldn't even utter a shout of surprise as Captain America's unbreakable, triangular shield slammed into his jaw. The Nazi agent grimaced as he felt his teeth crunch painfully together.

But Steve wasn't done yet. Again and again he pummeled his adversary, landing blow upon blow against his muscular frame. The ring of his shield striking the Skull's body resounded across the battlefield as sweat poured from Steve's brow. The rest of the conflict seemed almost to fade away while Captain America desperately fought against his enemy. Steve put every last bit of strength into the onslaught, knowing that if he didn't defeat Shmidt now, he would never get another chance.

And when the dust cleared and Captain America felt his body begin trembling with utter exhaustion, he fell to his knees, supporting his trembling frame against his shield. Looking up, he could see the Skull towering over him, his crimson eyes blazing as he glared down at his much loathed enemy.

"Quite an...impressive...outburst..." Shmidt said, wiping blood away from his mouth and holding his side as he struggled to breathe. "I was hoping...that you would...make this fun..."

And before Captain America could react, the Skull bent over and swiped his shield out from under him. Steve didn't even have time to watch as it flew away across the battlefield, whistling as it cut a spiraling pathway through the wind. Then the Skull picked Steve up off the ground, his enormous hand completely engulfing the hero's head, and held him up until they were facing each other, his eyes revealing nothing but burning fury.

"I hate you, Steve Rogers," Shmidt growled in a dangerously quiet voice. "Not because we are different...but because we are the same."

And grunting with exertion, the Red Skull slammed Captain America's face into the ground as hard as he possibly could with such titanic force that the very earth shook, shattering the rocks beneath them and sending shards splintering off in all directions.

Steve lost all sense of time and space as his world exploded with sound and pain. His senses had lost all meaning, and his mind seemed to have turned off. He was no longer aware of the war being waged around him. He was not aware of the bones he had broken, or the blood which was caked upon his face, obscuring his vision. Sounds were muted, and the world appeared to have blurred into an unrecognizable mess. He was dimly aware that someone nearby was making a noise, but he could not make out who it might be. Was it him?

Steve's mind traveled unbidden to that night which seemed so long ago, when he had first fought the Skull amidst the New York harbor. He recalled with crystal clarity how mismatched he had felt against his foe, and the incredible pain that streaked like lightning through his body at each punishing blow he had received. But what had really hurt, what he remembered most of all, was that his heart had been filled with rage at Dr. Erskine's death. And how he had longed for revenge against the Skull, who had murdered his mentor, and had come so close to destroying the Doctor's dream as well.

And that was why the words the Skull had spoken rang so true in Steve's heart. Shmidt had claimed that they were so similar, just two sides of the same coin. They were both patriots, both willing to put their lives on the line for their countries. They had both been chosen, either by their nations or by fate, to embody the ideals of their people, and to carry their brethren to victory, and they both believed in their missions wholeheartedly.

The difference, of course, was that the Skull and the Nazi party he represented seemed to have had the advantage every step of the way. Germany and the Axis powers had been clearly winning the war. The Red Skull himself was stronger and faster than Captain America, and Steve had been only one decision away from trading everything he'd ever believed in for one chance at vengeance on that dark night.

"Why will the Nazis win? Why will I destroy you, the final legacy of Dr. Erskine and the Allies' last chance of winning this war, here tonight?" the Skull had said to him, his voice dripping with insane rage. "Because we sacrificed more! Because we care more! Every man, woman, and child lives and breathes for victory back in the homeland! We raise our young from birth to serve the Fuhrer, and put them to work with German efficiency as soon as they can walk while you Americans, so filled with pride and your own false self worth, assume that you can ride in and save the day with minimal effort and maximum glory just like a hero in one of your ridiculous western pulp novels!"

"Just look at me, Rogers!" the Skull had continued, his voice rising with passion. "I sacrificed everything! My body is now that of a hideous monster! I will be feared and hated wherever I go for the rest of my life, incapable of experiencing love from the people who I sacrificed everything to protect! I can never again be what I once was...and I did it all for my country! I destroyed myself so that I could be reborn to uphold and safeguard the ideals that made my nation great!"

"And what have you sacrificed? You gave up a life as a pathetic weakling in order to become an attractive, stronger, faster icon to be adored by the masses! Don't you see? I will win because I worked more for it! I will win because I have paid the price! I will win because I want it more!" the Skull had exclaimed. "Let's face it, Rogers. You're just one mistake away from being me."

And Steve had heard those words, and he knew in his heart that they were true. They both essentially had the same job, battling against opposing philosophies. And it was at that moment that he realized that if Captain America ever hoped to prevail against the forces of hatred and darkness that threatened his beloved country, he would have to stand stalwart against those same emotions in his own heart. Yes, he was only one mistake away from becoming just like the Red Skull. If he gave into his own feelings of anger he would turn into what he hated the most...and that was why he had chosen instead to become what his mentor had always hoped he could be, Captain America, an embodiment of freedom, and not of hatred.

As these memories slowly faded from the mind of Captain America, Steve couldn't help but reflect upon the irony of it all. Had he given in to his emotions, and killed Johann Shmidt that night, he would have betrayed his own ideals and rendered Dr. Erskine's sacrifice vain, but because he had chosen to be a better man than his enemy, he was going to die this day instead. It seemed that no matter what he did, he was going to lose.

"Oh well," thought Steve to himself as his vision slowly faded to darkness. "At least I can die knowing I stayed true to myself, and in the end, maybe that's all a man can ask for."

All that was left was his final thought as it echoed within the recesses of his mind, "...I love you, James."

"Say goodbye, Rogers," the Skull snarled, raising his fists for one final blow against the broken hero who lay at his feet.

"I don't think so, dirtbag!"

Before the Skull realized what was happening, the Patriot leaped through the air, vaulting straight over the monster's head. For one moment James was suspended against the sky just above Shmidt, their eyes locking as the Patriot continued flying above him. With one smooth motion, James dodged the Skull, who was attempting to swat him away, as he simultaneously took a grenade and shoved it straight into the Skull's grimacing mouth.

Frantically, Shmidt tried to reach into his mouth and spit out the grenade, but it was too late. As the Patriot landed just in front of the giant and immediately bent over to shield the body of his friend from the blast, the explosive went off with an impressive bang. Shmidt's bellow of anger was muffled by the blast as he was knocked clear off his feet, the ground thundering with the force of his body's impact. James grunted with pain as the explosion seared his back, ripping away the fabric of his uniform. But all that mattered was that Steve was alright. That was all that had ever mattered.

"Now fellas!" the Patriot shouted, cradling Steve's head as he confirmed that his friend was still breathing. "Do it now!"

As the immense figure of the Skull attempted to pick himself up, he was immediately assaulted by Ronin and the Black Panther. Their attacks were perfectly in unison and expertly executed, and with no time to prepare for them, Shmidt was taken completely by surprise as he began staggering backwards, taking blow after blow, incapable of defending himself.

Unexpectedly the two Invaders fell back as a mighty roar bellowed from behind them, "Imperius Rex!"

That was when the Sub-Mariner streaked through the sky, his flight so swift that the sound he made resembled that of a falling bomb, slamming into the Red Skull with such ferocity that the impact sent dust and debris flying clear across the battlefield, and causing mighty tremors that threw their warring soldiers from their feet from dozens of yards away. The powerful blow sent the Skull flying backwards through the air and straight through the wall of a nearby concrete bunker overlooking the beach. The Invaders had pushed Shmidt back, resulting in a crater at the spot where Namor had struck the monster, in which the Atlantean King now lay without moving.

But the Invaders were not done yet. Grabbing a flamethrower that he'd found discarded on the ground, the Patriot had strapped it to his back and was running as fast as he could towards the entrance of the bunker, "Go to hell, Shmidt!" he shouted, pulling the trigger.

Flames erupted from the weapon, engulfing the entire ruined bunker within the inferno. The Patriot screamed in fury as he wielded the flamethrower, making sure that its flames covered the whole area and that there was no way for the Skull to escape. For a minute that seemed to last a day, the Patriot's rage had consumed him and the only thing that mattered was the destruction of the one who had been responsible for visiting so much pain and agony on his friends. Behind him, Logan and T'Chaka were busy making sure that Steve and Namor (who were both unconscious) were in no immediate danger...so they were not close enough to protect their teammate from what happened next.

Without warning, the bunker exploded, sending chunks of concrete flying everywhere. Ducking to avoid the deadly shrapnel, James' eyes widened with shock and terror at the hellish scene before him. Erupting from the ruins of the Nazi stronghold, bellowing in furious anguish, was the Red Skull. Lacerations and bruises covered his body and incredible flames ate away at his flesh, but the Skull still stood, seemingly undaunted despite the fires burning his skin. Shmidt's madness had made him truly unstoppable.

Letting loose an animalistic growl, Shmidt crossed the ground that separated him from his enemy in one impossible leap. The Patriot tried to avoid the attack, but the Skull's speed took him by surprise. In the blink of an eye the Nazi had torn the flamethrower away from James and he had the soldier trapped in a crushing embrace.

James screamed in unbearable pain as he felt his bones crack and his muscles tear. The flames that still ravaged across the Skull's body had begun to singe James' skin. Horrified, he realized that he could smell the smoke of his own flesh burning away. Unfortunately, all he could do was struggle helplessly in the face of Shmidt's crushing attack. In another few moments he would lose consciousness...and then he would surely perish.

"**Kill...you!**" the Red Skull roared, his pain, anger, and madness now reaching a terrifying crescendo.

"Aaaargh!" James couldn't help but scream in pure agony, as his mind was wiped blank and consumed by the pain that wracked his broken frame.

Then, in one savagely fluid motion, the Skull lifted James bodily up over his head, placing one hand on his left arm and the other on his right leg, and straining with exertion, began to rip the Patriot's very body in half. James' high pitched, tortured scream echoed across the field of battle as both Ronin and the Panther raced to aid their friend, knowing that they were already too late.

With a sickening crack and a spurt of blood and sinew, James' arm was torn completely off his body. The Patriot's bloodcurdling scream mingled with Johann Shmidt's insane laughter as he casually tossed aside the now useless arm of his adversary. Looking towards the last two Invaders, he dropped James to the ground, already forgotten, while the Skull advanced on the only remaining foes who could still hope to oppose him. The Patriot, crippled and mutilated, was writhing and screaming in agony upon the ground, tears streaming down his face as he was wracked with wave after wave of mind numbing horror.

Suddenly, the earth underneath the Skull exploded. Shmidt's shout of shock and terror was drowned out by the deafening roar of the cliffside collapsing in on itself beneath his feet. Logan and T'Chaka barely managed to pull what was left of the Patriot out of harm's way before the ground itself collapsed, crumbling away and sending the Skull tumbling down to the beach below.

Looking up, Logan and T'Chaka could not believe their eyes. A hundred yards away, slowly making its way up the steep beachside pathway, was an Allied tank. Three more tanks surrounded its position, and they were being escorted by a company of fresh soldiers who were equipped with heavy artillery, only a small part of a massive wave of Allied soldiers who were making their way to the scene of battle. Their reinforcements had finally arrived.

Behind them the battle still raged on the mainland. Both sides had nearly exhausted their forces. The Allied regiments had fought valiantly, but still could not manage to break through the Axis lines. The mutated giants that had so fiercely assailed the Invaders had moved on to the main conflict, but had already been nearly totally destroyed during their fight against Captain America and his team. Less than a dozen had survived, and had luckily not managed to inflict any severe damage upon the Allied soldiers, instead disbursing across the beachhead, lacking the intelligence to contribute much to the battle either way.

The remaining Invaders feverishly looked for any trace of the Red Skull as the tanks continued their slow progress up the path, but he had either met his end underneath the tons of rubble that was all that remained of the cliffside and the bunker which had rested upon it, or had more likely beaten a hasty retreat.

T'Chaka hadn't the heart to inform any of his teammates that he had discovered extremely large footprints in the sand leading away from the battle that could only have belonged to Shmidt. But he wasn't surprised at the Skull's decision to flee. In his foolish exuberance for vengeance upon Steve, the Skull had ignored his window of opportunity during the battle, and now that Allied reinforcements had arrived, a victory for the ragged Nazi forces was nothing more than a pipe dream.

Across the field of war lay the bodies of thousands of men from both sides, their blood stained the ground crimson for miles in every direction. The war weary soldiers had fought long and hard, both Allied and Axis forces had gained strength from their heroes, each faction spurred on by the inspiration of their incredible, almost godlike champions.

But at the end of the day, when the smoke cleared, it was the men and women of the armed forces who finally turned the tide enough to win the day. The beleaguered German lines could not stand before the wave of fresh troops, supplies, and heavy artillery that swarmed the mainland. Quailing at the very sight of the new arrivals, the Nazi ranks instantly split, with many of their men having already been mowed down or captured by the Allied forces.

The invasion of Normandy had finally been decided.

But Logan and T'Chaka didn't have time to celebrate. If they could not find immediate medical attention for their teammates, they would not survive the night. Steve and Namor were battered, bruised, and unconscious...but they were at least still breathing. James was slipping in and out of consciousness, now only possessing a bloody, mutilated stump where his arm used to be, so if they couldn't figure out a way to stop the horrendous amounts of blood he was losing within the next few minutes, then he would have no chance of survival.

The last thing James saw with his dulled and blurry vision was Logan's face above him as he told T'Chaka to go and find a medic as fast as he could...and then his world went dark.

James Barnes awoke nearly twenty-four hours later. It was the cold that did it, the persistent chill that forced his eyes to slowly open, chasing the lethargy from his senses. Gradually he became aware of the noise around him, grunts of pain mingled with hushed voices. He could immediately tell that he was still near the sea, even in his sad state. The foam in the wind and the scent of the air confirmed that much.

Fully opening his eyes, James could tell that he was in a tent of some kind. As the wind blew it rippled the fabric of the walls and found its way in through the gaps between the ceiling and bare ground. He could only guess that he must be in the medical tent, which would be large enough to shelter dozens of people. But his foggy brain couldn't remember exactly why he would be in there...

Looking to his side, the answer became painfully apparent. His shoulder had been wrapped thoroughly in white bandages, and where his arm had once been, now there was a disturbing space where he felt something should be. Along with that realization came a dull ache coming from the stub of his shoulder, and he got the distinct feeling that it was a pain that he would become all too familiar with for the rest of his life.

But none of that seemed to affect James at the moment. It was all too much. Too much to deal with. Too much to feel. The events of the last few days washed over him like a wave of nauseating terror. It was just too much. Too much for any man to experience. He felt a dull numbing sensation wash all over his body. He felt...dead inside. Dead to the world, as if his entire existence was now tainted...wrong. The world had somehow gone wrong around him. It shouldn't be like this.

"Glad to see you're awake."

"Steve!" James exclaimed, turning his head in time to see his friend enter the tent.

Steve was out of uniform, instead adorned in a hospital gown just like James was. Unfortunately, it was difficult to actually see the gown through the amount of bandages and splints that covered the super soldier nearly head to toe. But none of that could stop Steve from flashing that smile of his that lit up the room like only he could.

"It's so good to see you," Steve said, bending over and hugging his friend.

James managed to mumble a reply as he fought back tears, eventually finding it in himself to choke out, "Did...did we win?"

Steve smiled again, "Yeah. We managed to hold out just long enough for reinforcements to arrive and stabilize our position. We took the beach, and now we've opened the door to take back Europe."

A shadow seemed to pass over Steve's face, "But, the men. We lost so many. Too many died on the beach that day, James. Too many."

A silence fell over the room.

"How's the team?"

"Oh, everyone pretty much looks like this," Steve said, forcing another smile as he indicated his mummy like appearance. "Logan's already healed up, of course, but the doctors say that we'll be ready for combat in about a week...more or less."

James hung his head, "What...what about me?"

Steve placed his hand on his friend's good shoulder, "I won't lie to you James, it's bad. The doctors can't do anything about your arm, but they say that at least there won't be any permanent damage to the rest of your body. They've scheduled you to begin a strict rehabilitation regiment in a few days. You'll be fine."

James couldn't help but sniffle as tears leaked from his tightly clenched eyes. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Three days ago he had been an incredibly fit soldier, part of the most elite fighting team in human history, ready to defend his country until his last breath. Now...he wasn't even going to be able to move without spending time in rehab sessions. What was he going to do now?

"James...listen," Steve said in a soft voice, crouching down so he was at eye level with his friend. "Back there, when Shmidt attacked me...you saved my life. You and the rest of the team, you saved my life. If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't be here right now. I just...I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart."

Steve's eyes were overflowing with tears, "Thank you."

And as Steve Rogers and James Barnes hugged each other in that small, cold tent room, they did so not as heroes or Invaders, but just as men, as survivors, souls who had somehow found themselves alive at the end of a memory that would define them for the rest of their days.


	26. Chapter 26

The Age of Marvels:

Chapter Twenty Six

Captain America

and the

Invaders

Part Twenty Six

_** During the darkest days of World War II, America stood united against the threat of the Nazi Germany war machine. Our Greatest Generation sacrificed everything in order to stem the forces of oppression from overrunning our very planet, led under the fearless banner of the greatest hero of our time, Captain America. Inspired by his courageous example, and with the aid of his misfit band of Invaders, Captain America led the forces of freedom to victory, changing his world forever.**_

New Jersey

The home of Mr. Barnes

Colonel Fury gasped as the cold water hit his face. He'd had to excuse himself to go to the bathroom after the old man's story about his experience during D-Day. It had just been too much, and Mr. Barnes had needed a minute to collect himself.

The Colonel thought he could hear Barnes softly crying from the living room as he stared at himself in the mirror. There was something so heartbreaking about that sound, the sound of an old warrior forever reliving the horrifying glory of his past. But Fury's eyes grew cold as he met himself in the mirror, for that was the fate of all good soldiers who had outlived their usefulness. It would be better for him to get used to it now.

Eventually the old man quieted down, and Fury checked his watch. It wouldn't be that much longer before the sun rose. He couldn't believe he'd stayed awake all night. He stretched his stiff arms and let out a loud yawn. He certainly didn't regret his time with Barnes. He knew he would remember this night for the rest of his life. Talking with a legendary war hero like the Patriot was a once in a lifetime opportunity, an opportunity that the younger generation would never be able to enjoy. He wouldn't trade this experience for anything in the world.

Walking back into the living room, the Colonel smiled to himself as he found that the old man had fallen asleep in his chair. Fury supposed that it wasn't surprising, the veteran was probably older than dirt.

Sitting down, Fury noticed what looked like very old pieces of paper laying on the small table beside Barnes' snoring form. Upon closer inspection, it appeared as if they were letters written by Steve Rogers to James Barnes during the war while James had still been in rehab for his arm. They were dated only about two months after the events of D-Day. It looked like the old man would be able to finish his nap after all, because those letters picked up right where he had left off...

_August 18, 1944_

_ Dear James,_

_ First and foremost, let me say how much I miss you and the other Invaders. I understand why we were sent on separate missions, with the war raging across Europe and so many in need of assistance, there was only so much we could do as a single unit, but still, having all of you around made everything just a little easier, you know?_

_ I've tried to make up for your absence by developing a sense of humor, but according to the soldiers I'm working with, it's not going well. I think some of my jokes actually hurt more than the Nazi's incoming fire, if that tells you anything. What can I say, you're one of a kind, my friend._

_ I'm actually embarking on a new mission today. Last night I was approached by a very surprising individual who proposed an equally unexpected plan. I'm not sure how this is going to end, but the next few days promises to be very memorable indeed..._

Approximately 100 miles outside Paris, France

Steve Rogers couldn't help smiling as he roared through the tiny streets of the deserted French countryside on his bike. He didn't care how dangerous he'd been told it was, riding that motorcycle was the most fun he'd had in months. Since the Invaders had been temporarily separated he'd been sent from one hell hole to another, and while it was fun to fight alongside and get to know the soldiers he was protecting, he still missed his friends.

Unfortunately, it appeared that since their participation in the D-Day invasion, he and his teammates had become something like celebrities to the troops. Everywhere Steve went he was treated like royalty. Everyone had a kind word to say and a handshake to give out...and it took some getting used too.

Steve had sacrificed a lot to become Captain America, and he didn't regret it for one second, but sometimes he missed just being plain old scrawny Steve Rogers from Brooklyn. He missed working at the library, he missed helping out at the homeless shelter, and he missed just going to the local pub with James and clowning around.

He couldn't help but wonder if there would still be a place for him back home after the war. He had a feeling that things might never go back to the way they used to be. After all, how could they? They had done and seen too much since they left home. The world had changed around them and they had been forced to change with it. Not to mention the fact that Steve was now Captain America. He practically lived in a different body, and according to the news reels, everyone from New York to San Francisco knew who Captain America was at this point. Plus...James had lost an arm. What was he going to do once he became a civilian now that he had to struggle with an problem of that magnitude? Could either of them ever return to the lives they'd left behind?

Steve shook his head as he drove down the street. Those kinds of thoughts weren't healthy, and they were getting him nowhere. He'd deal with those issues when he got to them...if he was lucky enough to survive that long. He'd assured James that they'd see each other again as soon as he was able, but the top brass just kept sending Captain America to death trap after death trap. Apparently it never occurred to them that their stalwart red white and blue champion could ever be defeated, but Steve knew all too well that behind his shield was a man just as human and vulnerable as any other.

As Steve continued his journey, he found his thoughts drifting back to the previous evening. He shouldn't have even accepted his current mission, but it had been hard to say no under the circumstances.

He had been approached by General Charles de Gaulle himself, leader of the Free French forces that had been exiled when the Nazis took Paris. They had been fighting alongside the British ever since, waiting for the opportunity to advance and reclaim their homeland. De Gaulle was a seasoned veteran, an amazing tactician, and a hard as nails commander who was good to his men. He also had a reputation as a stubborn loose cannon among the brass, and frankly, Steve couldn't believe that he was being contacted by him at all, or that he was so far away from headquarters when Steve had heard no indication of his arrival whatsoever. Something strange was going on.

The General had summoned Steve to a small, secretive, closed tent meeting, which had been lit only by a single sputtering lantern. After a formal, but rushed greeting, De Gaulle had gotten right down to business, informing Cap that though the Germans had been scattered across France, and the way to Paris was now open, the rest of the commanders had opted instead to temporarily skip over the capital city, in favor of pursuing the Nazi forces located in more strategically important areas.

However, to the French, Paris was the _only_area of strategic importance at that time. The people of Paris were suffering heavily under the new Nazi regime, and rumor had it that Hitler would sooner destroy the entire city, the heart and soul of the French people, before he would ever see it liberated. While the other generals had ordered their troops to avoid the area, De Gaulle could not be satisfied with that decision, and with full knowledge that he was disobeying orders, was preparing to send two companies of Allied troops to the suffering city in order to liberate it.

"What you do with your own soldiers is your decision," Captain America had told him. "But what does this have to do with me?"

De Gaulle explained that every day the Allies delayed freeing the city, more of his countrymen would die, and the city as a whole could very well be reduced to complete rubble before the Allies decided to intervene. But just as important was the spirit and mindset of the French people.

When the Nazis had invaded, they had destroyed the nation's central governmental body, and as a result the French people as a whole now found themselves politically divided. They had no hero to rally behind, and so even if the Germans were to be expunged, the heart of France would have already been destroyed, and a long a bloody struggle to reunify the country would likely ensue.

No, what the French needed was an opportunity to save themselves. This would allow them to regain their pride and give them the ability to restructure their own government in a way that the people would support and approve. If they could take back Paris largely by their own power, and avoid the tragic fate that would no doubt await them if they sat on their hands while the Nazis slaughtered them all due to the sluggish response of the Allied forces, then not only would hundreds of thousands of lives be saved, but if Cap was leading the charge, they would also save their capital and give their devastated country a unifying symbol of strength so that they could regain hope in their future.

"Surely, Captain America, you are familiar with the power and importance that a symbol can provide," the General had said in a persuasive voice.

Steve had taken a long time to answer, "I'm a soldier, so I'm no fan of disobeying orders...but that's not what Project Rebirth and Captain America is about. If your people's lives are at stake, I'm your man. Besides, it sounds like you're only acting in the best interests of your country, and if our roles were reversed, I'd probably do the same thing. Now, what did you have in mind?"

And that's how Steve Rogers found himself traveling down the narrow backroads of France in an effort to rendezvous with a small, elite squad of soldiers and their escort, who would sneak them all inside the city. De Gaulle had said that the main regiments assigned to liberate Paris were a week away at best, so Captain America's assignment would be to work with the French Resistance already inside Paris and the elite troops at his command to make sure the city was still standing by the time the primary Allied forces arrived.

Even without the aid of the other Invaders, Steve reasoned that the mission didn't sound altogether impossible. What honestly worried him more was the news, or lack thereof, from the boys in intelligence concerning a different matter entirely.

He had taken the time a few days ago to track down the nearest representative of the Allied department of intelligence in order to inquire as to the status of their investigation of Project Trump Card, a mysterious undertaking that he had discovered when he and James had found an encrypted file months ago while infiltrating a Nazi spy outpost located right in the docks of New York City. Nobody had any idea what Trump Card entailed, but the guys in intelligence promised they would make its investigation their top priority.

After several months and one successful invasion of Europe later, they still didn't have a single lead, which was possibly the worst news they could have reported. A complete inability to turn up information didn't mean the Allies had nothing to worry about...it actually meant quite the opposite. If the Germans were keeping the project so secretive that even the best Allied spies couldn't get any word on it, than it must be incredibly important. All they knew now was that the Nazis were working on something extremely dangerous, but they had absolutely no idea what form the actual threat might take. The Allies would just have to keep their eyes open and hope for the best.

Steve was shaken from his reverie by a sign which read 'Paris, 90 km'. That was what he had been looking for. Not far away was what appeared to be a German military transport truck. Its wide bed was covered in a large felt canopy which made it perfect for delivering troops and supplies to any easily accessible location. These trucks could usually be seen along the Axis supply lines from France all the way to the Russian front, so it was a common sight...but it was still odd to see one by itself on the side of the road. Steve nodded his head. This was the place, alright.

Coasting to a stop next to the truck, Captain America got off his bike and softly knocked against the transport's window. Before he knew it, he was grabbed from behind and stuffed into the back of the truck as the curtains were closed behind him and the vehicle accelerated with a disconcerting rattle back onto the road.

"Get in here, you big idiot! You wanna blow our cover?"

It took Steve a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light as he scrambled into a sitting position and straightened his helmet, but what surprised him even more than the ambush was the voice that addressed him. It was a woman's voice! Looking up from his sprawled position he could see a tall, well-built, thin woman glowering down at him. She had long dirty blonde hair that flowed from underneath her beret and the most piercing brown eyes he had ever seen. Steve couldn't help but notice how soft her skin looked...until he saw the hard, cold expression on her otherwise lovely face and the large rifle she kept slung over her shoulders.

"Oh...uh...Captain America, reporting for duty, ma'am!" Steve managed to stutter, throwing an awkward salute.

"Stow that, Rogers. We don't have time for that kind of ridiculous flag-waving mentality here," said the woman.

Steve's mouth awkwardly hung open as he sat there. This stunning woman actually knew his name? This was like some kind of dream...

The dark blonde took out a cigar and expertly lit it in moments despite the bumpy road, "Don't act so shocked, soldier. Everybody an' their grandma knows who Captain America is."

Taking a puff of the cigar and throwing the astonished soldier a contemptuous glance, she bent over and offered her hand, "Pick that gaping jaw up off the floor or yer gonna get splinters, genius."

Steve grasped the offered hand and hoisted himself up, coming face to face with the outspoken woman for the first time, "Name's Peggy Carter. I'll be your babysitter while you and your men are here."

"Babysitter?" was all a confused Steve could manage to say.

Peggy sighed, "I'm sorry, I'm not used to speaking like one of you trained military monkeys. I'll be your official liaison to the Resistance while you're in Paris. Welcome to the city of love."

"She's a firecracker, ain't she?"

Steve took his eyes off the woman and for the first time took notice of the other men in the back of the truck. There were eight of them in all, each one dressed in a U.S. army uniform. It was immediately clear that each of these soldiers had seen extensive action in the war. They had that look which Steve knew could only come from experience. They were a laid back, easygoing group, but every one of them had their eyes glued to Captain America. It was a reaction that Steve was still getting used too.

"I'm Jack Fury, and these are my Howling Commandos," said one of the men, standing up to shake Steve's hand. "We've been assigned under your command for this mission, Captain."

"You boys are the Howling Commandos?" Steve asked with a grin. "They didn't tell me I'd be working with you. You guys are the most elite commando unit we've got! I'm _still_ hearing stories about the time you saved an entire regiment at Le Mans, and that mission where you took down that supply train without any backup whatsoever in Lisieux was legendary!"

Jack matched Steve's grin with his own, "Speak for yourself, Rogers. The Invaders have made one hell of a name for themselves in this war. I've seen the Krauts turn tail and run at the mere mention of you guys."

Steve Rogers had never met anyone quite like Jack Fury before. The man looked like he had come straight out of one of those old Western dime novels that Steve used to read in his youth. He was a little on the shorter side, with military length dark hair that during civilian life had clearly been well groomed. Now it was a tad shaggy and unkempt, but it complimented Jack's battle-hardened, craggy features as well as his stubbly face. He was obviously a well-muscled soldier, whose service had resulted in a dark tan over his scarred body. This was a no-nonsense man who knew how to do his job and do it well. He had mastered the tricks of the trade and knew that for a trooper on the front lines, the best way to get himself killed was to follow orders to the letter and do things by the book. Improvisation, surprise, and superior, fluid tactics was the way to stay alive on the battlefield, and that was how the Howling Commandos had built their unmatched reputation for excellence.

"It's an honor to work with you, sir," said Steve, with another salute.

"Nonsense, Rogers, the honor's all mine," Jack interrupted, with a dismissive wave of his hand. "You and the Invaders saved all our lives during Normandy. If it hadn't been fer you, we wouldn't even be here today. So...thanks."

The remaining Howling Commandos then each got up, thanked Steve profusely, and shook his hand. It was a moment that caught the super soldier completely off guard. Here was the most decorated unit in the American armed forces, and they were calling _Steve_ a hero. Despite himself, Cap still didn't think he deserved it. No, the real heroes were the men and women who went out there and fought the good fight without any extra abilities or powers to protect them. They had homes to go back to and families who were waiting for them there. They had so much more to lose than Steve did. They were the ones that Steve looked up to, they were the ones that he was fighting for.

"Well, if you saps are done patting yourselves on the back, can we get down to business?" Peggy interrupted, clearly irritated. "You Americans may be under the impression that this is just some kind of extended vacation, but us Resistance Fighters still got a job to do, you know."

"Just what is your problem, lady?" Fury asked, turning to the woman with a scowl on his face. "It's one thing to give me and my men the cold shoulder, but it's something else to insult Captain America. This man deserves your respect."

"Respect?" Peggy sneered with contempt. "I'll show him some respect when he earns it."

"I'm sorry, Miss. I think we got off on the wrong foot," replied Steve. "We only want to help, and to that end, the better we work together, the more we can help you."

"Oh sure, _now_ you're here to help," snapped Peggy sarcastically. "Now that you're here, you expect us to just throw up our hands and let the big strong Americans save us from the nasty Germans, is that right? Well you can forget it! We've gotten the messages from De Gaulle, and we'll be damned if we just roll over and die while Hitler rapes our people and destroys our home and the Allies take their sweet time showing up!"

"Ma'am, I've had the honor of speaking to General De Gaulle," said Steve in a soft voice. "And he personally requested that these men and I come here to make sure that doesn't happen. I promise you, we will do everything we can to make sure Paris is still standing when this is all over."

Peggy fixed Steve with an icy stare, realizing that despite his ridiculous appearance, his words still made sense, "How do I know you won't turn tail and run at the first sign of trouble? The Resistance doesn't come by allies easy, you know."

Steve placed his hand over his heart, "You have my word, Miss Carter," he assured her solemnly.

"I'm not sure what the word of a red, white, and blue clown is worth, but I'm holding you to it, Rogers," Peggy said, her eyes narrowing as she took another puff of her cigar. "Now sit down and be quiet. I gotta check with the driver, but we've still got a long way to go 'til we make Paris."

Steve Rogers was prepared for a very long, uncomfortable trip to the city, preoccupied as he was with the inexplicably hostile woman he'd just met. It was rare enough to find a woman on the battlefield at all, much less someone like her. She was unlike any girl he'd ever met back home. Why, he'd seen drill sergeants more tame than she was, and that was saying something. And one other thing, how did she manage to keep her hair so beautiful in the middle of a war zone, anyway?

"Don't mean to tell you how to do yer job, but don't you think you should be focusing on how we're gonna secure Paris rather than th' pretty blonde?"

"Oh!" blurted Steve, shocked out of his reverie. "I-I wasn't..."

Jack Fury grinned, "Don't try to deny it, Cap. Lyin' ain't good fer yer image. Besides, ya got that look about ya."

The grin vanished from the grizzled soldier's face, "S'why I don't like girls on th' battlefield. It ain't good fer morale an' it distracts the men. Don't let her get in yer head, Cap."

"I'll keep that in mind," Steve said, nodding.

"Let me introduce ya to the rest of th' guys," continued Jack, motioning to the others. "This is my second-in-command, Tim Dugan. We call 'em Dum Dum."

Dugan was a large man, whose body was thick like a tree trunk. But to Steve's now experienced eyes, it was easy to see he was all muscle. He had thick red hair that immediately caught they eyes of anyone looking his way, which was oddly complimented by the large, handlebar mustache that sprouted from his face. The whole ensemble was topped off by a bowler hat that he wore atop his head which all came together to produce quite a curious image.

"I told ya to stop calling me that," Dugan hissed under his breath as he leaned forward to shake Steve's hand, an infectious smile spreading across his face. "It's an honor ta meet you, sir."

Jack continued introducing the men, "This is Izzy Cohen, Gabe Jones, and Dino Manelli. Sitting over there are Rebel and Pinky."

"Pinky?" Steve asked, trying to keep a smile from his face.

"Don't ask," Pinky answered, trying to look busy cleaning his firearm.

"And that there is Junior," finished Jack.

"Jonathan Juniper," the soldier said, leaning over to enthusiastically greet the super soldier. "Everyone calls me Junior cause a' my age."

Steve couldn't blame them. Jonathan was the youngest looking Allied soldier he'd ever seen. He wouldn't be surprised if he was below the legal enlistment age. Lord knows there were plenty of them around. Heck, if he'd had his way, Steve would have been one of them. Jonathan himself was a wiry lad, who had to have been fresh out of high school. He still boasted some acne on his face, and his lanky frame filled his uniform rather awkwardly. His helmet insisted on sliding down in front of his eyes, requiring him to straighten it out constantly over his greasy hair. But his enthusiasm more than made up for his clumsy appearance. He was clearly thrilled to be there.

"I still got me some bubblegum left over from th' last supply run. Ya want some?" Junior asked, offering Steve a stick of grimy gum.

"Thanks, but I'll pass," said Steve, unable to keep from grinning.

"Alright guys, settle down," Jack growled, shoving Junior back into his seat. "Give Cap some air. You'll get plenty of time ta pester him once we reach th' target."

Jack then turned back to Steve, his hard eyes giving the impression that he rarely smiled, "I know they don't look like much, but I handpicked each one of 'em myself. They're the best of th' best, an' know their way around a battlefield better'n any squad I've ever worked with. Don't fret, yer in good hands, Cap."

Steve placed his hand on Jack's shoulder, "Then I guess that means I'll have to work extra hard to keep up with you, huh?"

Swapping war stories with the Howling Commandos seemed to pass the time pretty quickly. It seemed to Steve that he had known these men forever. It was almost like he was back with the other Invaders...almost. These soldiers were legends in their own rights. They had accomplished things that regular units, especially the fresh ones that were just experiencing the front lines for the first times, could never have dreamed of. The Howling Commandos were heroes, and had grown accustomed to the burden that their exemplary experience and abilities had thrust upon them in the same manner that Steve had. In some ways, their gifts had become a curse. Normal soldiers never had to deal with the pressure of being relied upon and idolized the way the Commandos did. Normal troops were never sent on the suicide missions without provided backup the way the Howlers and the Invaders were. And those shared experiences created a bond between Steve and the Commandos that he had never had outside the Invaders.

It was then that Peggy stuck her head back through the felt canopy which separated the bed from the cab as she hissed, "Quiet boys. We're almost there, but if we want to make it into the city, we have to get past these guards," she said with her usual scowl. "So zip it or you could scrap the entire operation."

The truck settled into a heavy silence. Steve noticed that the Howlers had become quiet, but not apprehensively so. This wasn't their first rodeo. They'd been in worst situations before, and they were certain that they'd find themselves in tighter spots in the future. After working alongside fresh recruits for almost two months, Steve found the shared confidence and reliability the Howlers offered to be quite refreshing.

Muffled voices could be heard coming from the front of the truck as Captain America tensed slightly, shuffling the strap of his shield off his shoulder just in case things went south. Next to him, he could see Jack Fury tightening his grip on his gun as well. The group might be confident, but they weren't taking any chances. But before long, the supply truck began moving again, and the atmosphere lightened noticeably.

"What happened?" asked Steve as Peggy's head reappeared through the curtain.

"Just what I'd expected," Peggy said in a nonchalant tone, half shrugging. "Paris is no longer an incredibly high priority for the Nazi command, so they've been redeploying most of the troops who were stationed here to better engage the Allied invading forces. This squad was short by several men, and at this point they don't really care about who's coming into the city, but rather keeping people from leaving. They're basically running Paris with a skeleton crew now, and if we have anything to say about it, soon they won't even be able to manage that. Now get ready, we'll be walking the rest of the way."

In a few minutes the cramped truck came to a complete stop, and Steve and the Commandos were hastily rushed out of the canopied bed and hustled down a small, pungent smelling alleyway. Steve couldn't see much as they jogged down the dim street as fast as they could, doing their best to conceal themselves as much as possible amongst the shadows.

After rounding the next turn, Peggy swung open a rusted door, vanishing into the interior just before the Howlers could follow her lead. Captain America took one last look down the clogged alley before chasing after the others within the confines of the old brick building.

Peggy had been waiting for him, and after slamming the door shut with a resounding clank, she turned to them all and said, "Welcome to the French Resistance, gentlemen. We survive by scurrying around the unseen and unfrequented bowels of Paris. We are the invisible eyes and ears of the people, learning what we can through subterfuge and trickery and those few contacts of ours who are closest to the Nazis."

Steve listened intently as Peggy talked while they continued traversing down through the almost impossibly dark passage, "To be in the Resistance is to court death. Do not deceive yourselves, the Germans are in complete control of the city. Every second that we resist their rule is another moment that our lives are in jeopardy. We live by running and hiding at every opportunity. Only when we cannot run any farther do we fight...and we die. We are outmanned and outgunned, and every one of us knows that we fight a losing battle. Most recruits will not survive their first month in service to our people...but we go to our graves knowing that our cause is just and our sacrifice noble."

Not a word was spoken by anyone else while Peggy continued, "The people of Paris live every day under a shroud of terror. The Nazis are ruthless and efficient...and they are damn smart. Those who were not lucky enough to flee during the first few days of the invasion alongside the Free French Legion have suffered staggering and unforgivable losses. While the Germans seem to respect and almost admire the art and culture that the few wealthy uppercrust citizens of Paris offers, make no mistake, amongst the unfortunate lower classes of the city our people have been literally decimated. Not a single life remains untouched by the loss, despair, and horror of the German regime. Most of the city has been cordoned off into ghettos in which we have been herded. Men, women, and children have been carted off to local internment camps or worse...even rounded up and executed just for looking or speaking differently. Under false accusations of treason and rebellion, thousands of innocent people have been murdered merely to serve as examples for the rest of us in order to keep us towing the line."

"And that's not even the worst of it," the resistance fighter continued. "We are denied the basic human amenities that we require just to live. Paris has been turned into a ghost town. The Nazis ration our food and clothing, and have forced most of the city into poverty. Oh sure, they spare the rich families who have no choice left to them but to cower under the boots of the Nazis, but that serves only to promote their cruel propaganda machine. Hunger, starvation, and disease has completely ravaged the remainder of our people. We've been lucky to survive as long as we have. If this continues for even a few more months, there might not be enough of our people left to ever reclaim our way of life. There are some scars that can _never_heal."

Steve could barely make out Peggy's eyes, burning with hatred in the dark, "Paris has been turned into a nightmare. And the Resistance is willing to fight to the death to take back our city."

"No offense, ma'am, but are you guys even equipped enough to have a chance to reclaim Paris?" asked Jack, his voice echoing back through the passage.

"Despite the situation the civilians find themselves in, the Resistance is stronger than you might think," answered Peggy with an icy tone. "Our numbers have been growing rapidly every day since we heard of your successful invasion at Normandy. The Germans have had Paris in their iron grip ever since the Blitz, but during the last few weeks, thanks to you, they've been slowly losing control of the city almost by the hour."

The group had now entered a room large enough for all of them. Although there was hardly any more light there than in the darker hallway, Steve could see the tattered wallpaper hanging from the ceiling and small piles of refuse lining the floors. A faint squeak betrayed the presence of mice who were no doubt alarmed by the sudden arrival of so many visitors.

"Even so, to be honest, the Resistance needs all the help it can get...even if it has to come from you," Peggy explained, with a sneer. "Your timing couldn't be better. Things are happening fast on the streets and the tension is rapidly building. We could be ordered into open rebellion at any time."

"Why's that?" Jack asked in a gravelly voice. "Why not just sit tight until the Allied units arrive?"

Peggy's voice was quiet in the dark, "Our spies report that the moment the German commanding officers feel they are in danger of losing the city, they are to destroy as much of it and its people as they can before retreating. Hitler is of the opinion that if he can't have Paris, nobody can have it. We're staring down the barrel of complete and total annihilation, the likes of which this city has never seen before."

The darkness of the building's basement seemed to draw close around the small group of soldiers as she continued, "Our mission is to save as many people as we can before Allied reinforcements arrive, and you can bet that the Germans are gonna give us one hell of a fight."


	27. Chapter 27

The Age of Marvels: Chapter Twenty-Seven

Captain America

and the

Invaders

Part Twenty-Seven

_**During the darkest days of World War II, America stood united against the threat of the Nazi Germany war machine. Our Greatest Generation sacrificed everything in order to stem the forces of oppression from overrunning our very planet, led under the fearless banner of the greatest hero of our time, Captain America. Inspired by his courageous example, and with the aid of his misfit band of Invaders, Captain America led the forces of freedom to victory, changing his world forever.**_

New Jersey

The home of Mr. Barnes

Colonel Fury felt more awake than he had been in hours. He knew that his grandfather, Jack Fury, had served during the war as the leader of the elite black ops unit known as the Howling Commandos, and he'd heard the story of how he'd met the legendary Captain America, but he'd never heard it like this. He had been waiting for this part of the old man's tale all night, but to be actually reading it from the private journal of the one and only super soldier himself...it was an honor that he knew he would never deserve.

As he continued reading Fury felt pride swelling up within his chest. He'd always known that he was part of a truly unique and amazing legacy, but over the years, as he had tried his best to follow in his father and grandfather's footsteps, striving as hard as he could to do them proud, he somehow now felt, while his thoughts dwelt on the words of the journal, that he had achieved his goal. Sure, he was a high ranking, important member of the most feared and respected military organization in the world, but his parents had both died before his career had really taken off, and his grandfather was long gone as well. No, it was right then, as he sat on that couch under the dim light of the room's single lamp, that he finally felt vindicated. As if the voices of the past were acknowledging him for the first time.

The Colonel leaned over and checked on Mr. Barnes as he continued slumbering in his chair. His snoring was deep and rhythmic, so he was definitely asleep. The thin line of drool hanging from his mouth and his sporadic, barely audible mumbling was enough to prove that.

Fury decided to get more comfortable on the couch as a smile crossed his face. This was going to be an interesting read.

_August 19, 1944_

_ Dear James,_

_ You wouldn't believe who I'm working with on this mission, it's none other than Jack Fury and the Howling Commandos! And they're everything that you'd imagine them to be, although they are a little rough around the edges, especially Fury. He almost makes me feel sorry for the Nazis. Almost._

_ Paris, however, is a different story. I think I might have shown up a bit late for tourist season. And if the Krauts don't get me, our guide will. Her name is Peggy Carter, and she is one tough broad. Never in my life have I seen a group of men so terrified of one woman. I can't help but think, however, that there might be something she's hiding under that tough exterior. You should see this woman, James, she's something else. And even though I can tell it bothers Fury, for some reason I can't quite get her out of my mind..._

_ This morning, before the battle, I met with the leader of the French Resistance. His name is Henri-Rol Tanguy, and it was obvious that he's seen more during this war than most men ever see in a lifetime. The death and destruction that has engulfed his city has clearly changed this man. I don't know what he was like before the war, but there's something in his eyes that chills me to the bone, as if he has nothing left inside anymore, as if he has lost something that made him fundamentally human._

_ Anyway, if I ever had any doubts about whether or not I should have participated in this mission, they're sure gone now._

August 19, early morning

Somewhere underneath the Grand Palais

Headquarters of the French Resistance Forces

"You wanted to see me, sir?" asked Captain America as he swung open the rickety door and stepped into the office.

"Ah yes, Steve Rogers, the infamous Captain America," said a low voice from inside. "Please, come in and have a seat."

Steve sat down and cast his eyes over the office. It certainly wasn't what he had been expecting...none of this was. The Resistance had apparently been based inside a great French monument, the Grand Palais. It was a large, sprawling, ancient building which had at one point been decorated with ornate statues, paintings, and tapestries of all kinds, but over the course of the war it had been slowly ruined. Its pieces of art had been ransacked, stolen, or destroyed, and the building had, for all intents and purposes, been completely gutted. It now stood as a sad and crumbling reminder of the glory that it had once represented...and for that reason it was the perfect place for the Resistance to set up shop.

It was spacious enough to accommodate whatever the Resistance may require, and came complete with subterranean tunnels and passages that led to every corner of the city. The Germans had long considered it abandoned and obsolete, as all the comings and goings of the Resistance were through underground channels, and because their headquarters was located mostly within the secret, well guarded underbelly of the palace, they had so far been completely unnoticed while hiding right under the German's noses.

The office itself was not what Steve was accustomed to seeing a high ranking military officer inhabit. It was more like a cluttered, cobwebbed broom closet. The Commander (Steve wasn't clear if he even had an official military rank) sat behind a painfully small, splintery, decaying desk, which was cluttered with documents of every shape and size. A lamp that was nearly bent in half and far too bright for such a small space, stood behind him, illuminating the various artifacts and pieces of art that Steve assumed the Resistance had managed to salvage from the occupiers. The super soldier couldn't help but marvel that despite their total lack of space and manpower, the French still placed such a value on the artwork of their people. But, he supposed, if he had been placed in charge of a vast wealth of one of a kind, world-renowned artistic culture, he would risk his life to protect it as well.

"Commander Tanguy, it is an honor to meet you," Steve said, putting his hand out to shake the Commander's. "The heroism of the French Forces of the Interior is known all the way in Ameri..."

"Why don't we just skip the pleasantries and get right down to business?" Tanguy asked without really asking, cutting Steve off in the middle of his sentence. "As you can imagine, the FFI doesn't generally have time for pointless chit-chat."

The blatant rudeness of the Commander startled Steve into immediate silence, but Tanguy took little notice of this, "Now I know you have something of a reputation amongst your American colleagues. It must be a nice luxury, the feeling of superiority you get from the adulation from your fans. I would imagine that for an idol such as yourself, that kind of attention must be commonplace. But I'm afraid you will get none of that kind of hero worship here."

Steve was about to open his mouth in protest when he was once again interrupted,

"While your exalted American forces were playing the victim at Pearl Harbor, we were dying," Tanguy continued. "When you were stumbling around training your armies, we were dying. When you were floundering about in the battle of Midway, we were dying. And when you were building sandcastles at Normandy, and ignoring us, we were still dying."

"Now hold on just a minute, sir," Steve said, raising his voice in anger. "With all due respect, I think you're being a bit unfair. While I can't imagine the suffering your people have been through, we have done everything we can to aid your country. Now, I know that the decision to temporarily bypass Paris was a controversial one, but that's why General De Gaulle sent me and the Howlers here to begin with. And while we're here, we have just as much to lose as you do, so I would appreciate if we could all just drop this hostility that we seemed to have picked up so we can work together for the sake of your people."

A wry smile crossed the lips of the Commander, "I couldn't agree more, Captain. You'll have to excuse my rudeness. I just had to be sure you had the right attitude for the job. I can't have any dissension among my ranks. We cannot afford for the odds to be any more stacked against us than they are already during this upcoming battle."

Steve sighed with relief, realizing he'd just been tested, "Understood, sir."

Tanguy cocked an eyebrow, "Is there something on your mind, Rogers? Why don't you spit it out?"

Surprised at the Commander's blunt inquiry, Steve continued, "If I may be frank, sir, from what I've seen and heard of the FFI's capabilities, I'm still not convinced you're strong enough to take on the Germans with any real effectiveness. Are you sure a pitched military strike is the right way to go at this juncture?"

Tanguy's eyes narrowed, "There is much that you Americans do not understand about the French, I think. If we did nothing, and sat on our hands, as you suggest, by the time your reinforcements arrive, there would no longer be any city to save. Hitler is adamant that if he cannot have Paris, no one can have Paris. Within a week she will be destroyed, and her people slaughtered. We must stop this at all costs. It is why you are here, no?"

The Commander leaned forward, staring straight at the super soldier, "You must understand, Paris is more than just a city to us. Everything we are, all that we have built for ourselves over the centuries, is contained within this city. Our pride, our culture, our heritage, our identity, all these things and more are here, and if Paris is destroyed, we will have lost everything that made us French. How are we to rebuild this nation one day if there is nothing left of our selves to rebuild from?"

"And even more importantly, hundreds of thousands of lives will be lost here if the Germans reduce our glorious city to ashes, and those lives can never be replaced. How can you suggest that we passively sit by and let that happen, while your vaunted reinforcements continue to amble over at their convenience?"

"But your men," said Steve, pain evident in his voice. "I have doubts that your men, with their numbers and equipment, can hold the city even for the week that it will take for the Allies to arrive. They will be _decimated_, Commander."

"If we must die to defend this city, then that is a sacrifice that any true Frenchman is proud to make," said Tanguy, his voice even deeper and more hollow than ever. "Can you truly say that you would not do the same if it were your own country in jeopardy?"

Steve could not.

"Besides," the Commander continued, the first hint of a sarcastic smile on his face. "We have the famous Captain America on our side. What could possibly go wrong?"

As soon as Steve left the office, he gave a tiny yelp of surprise as Peggy Carter fell in step beside him, "How was your meeting with the Commander, Rogers? Having fun wasting everyone's time?"

Steve tried to ignore the woman's sarcastic tone, "Nice to see you too, Miss Carter."

Peggy cut right to the point, "The Germans are under a strategic retreat in anticipation of the upcoming Allied advance. The Resistance is using this opportunity to marshal our forces in an attempt to grab as much of the city as we can before the Nazis can mount an effective line of defense."

"Where's our current position?" Steve asked, quickening his pace while trying his best to ignore Peggy's long blonde hair as it caught the dusty light filtering down through the creaky ceiling above.

Unfortunately, Peggy had noticed Steve noticing her hair, and she brusquely tucked it underneath her beret, "We're three blocks southeast of here, setting up shop on top of an abandoned storefront," she explained. "Fury wants you to take point immediately."

"No problem," Steve replied, hoping that the dim light hid his slightly blushing face. "If we move fast and take enough territory today, it could really make a big difference as the battle continues."

"That may be so," Peggy agreed, opening the dilapidated door ahead as they emerged into the filthy street. "But keep in mind that these aren't the ridiculously over-trained Allied troops you're used too. A lot of these Resistance men have only signed up within the last week or so and received no formal training at all."

This made Steve uncomfortable, "So...they're just angry civilians, then?"

Peggy kept her response short, "Pretty much."

Neither Peggy nor Steve was stupid, they both knew what that meant. A trained soldier, no matter what situation he may find himself in, was certain to boast a survival rate at least two or three times longer than someone who had not been trained in the art of war. So while a soldier could generally be counted on to achieve objectives or hold a position while working within a comprehensive unit, a civilian with a gun, no matter how passionate they might be or how large a group they may be working with, was often little more than cannon fodder on a battlefield.

"Don't underestimate us, Rogers," Peggy's iron voice cut through the super soldier's thoughts. "We'll gladly die to defend this city...it's not like we haven't done it before..."

As those words left her mouth, Steve could feel a strong undercurrent of exhaustion and, could it be...even despair in her voice. Now that he thought about it, Peggy looked a lot more haggard and worn out than she had the previous day. The fire and passion that she had exhibited (albeit at Steve's expense) had been replaced by the kind of burden that can only be carried by someone whose soul had seen too much. Something had happened to Peggy since the last time Steve had seen her...something horrible.

Before she could say another word Steve stopped her right there in the middle of the alley they'd been walking through and looked her straight in her eyes, "Miss Carter...what happened?"

The FFI agent came to a stop, her gaze staring straight ahead into nothingness. At first she hesitated to speak, reluctant to open up, for even an instant, in front of her new acquaintance, but she could no longer go on pretending that she was fine when she was feeling so much helpless rage inside, "It happened just this morning. I was scheduled to meet up with a company returning from a mission running food to a shelter near the outskirts of the city. The rally point had been in the Bois de Boulogne, and as soon as I crested the last ridge to the rendezvous point, I knew something was wrong."

Steve's concerned silence prompted Peggy to continue.

"The men, thirty something in all, had already been turned around and lined up when I got there, with their hands above their heads. One of them, who I recognized as a newer recruit, was addressing them all in a smug voice. At his signal, a dozen Nazi troops emerged from behind a thick line of shrubs. I could hear my men praying, crying, or begging for mercy as the Nazi bastards set up their machine guns."

Peggy's voice broke with emotion as she leaned against a nearby wall for support. Steve fought back the urge to place his hand on her shoulder, knowing she wouldn't take it well, "I found myself creeping closer to the scene," she admitted. "I don't know what I hoped to accomplish. There was nothing I could do to stop what was about to happen. There was nothing I could do to save my fellow Frenchmen, but I did it anyway. Now I'm glad that I did, because I'll never forget what I learned."

Peggy gritted her teeth as tears of anger trickled down her face, "The traitor had infiltrated the FFI posing as a common infantryman. In reality he was a wealthy baron of a long standing German family, and one of the first major proponents of the Nazi party. His name is Heinrich Zemo, and he betrayed and murdered dozens of my men in broad daylight."

"I'm so sorry..." said Steve softly, not sure how to react around the normally hostile woman.

"They never had a chance. They were taken completely by surprise, disarmed, and then mowed down with machine gun fire. Those German cowards!" she shouted, punching the wall in her passion with painful results. "Zemo's gone back to his superiors now, he knows his cover's blown, but I swear, if I ever get my hands on him, I'll kill him myself! And if there's a god in heaven it'll be twice as slow and painful as those good men he murdered in cold blood!"

"Where would this Baron Zemo have gone to?"

Peggy sniffed away the last of her tears, trying to get a hold of herself, "He's probably at the Nazi stronghold in the Hotel Meurice, busy kissing the General's rear."

"The General?"

Peggy once again shouldered her gun as she shakily resumed walking, "General von Choltitz. Zemo is his right hand man, the one who does all his dirty work. He's been a pain in the Resistance's side since the beginning of the occupation. I can't believe he was able to infiltrate our organization so easily. If only making him pay was as easy as I made it sound."

"What's the problem?" Steve asked, wishing he could do more.

Peggy faced Steve directly, fury and frustration evident on her flushed features, "Along with being a brilliant military leader, Baron Zemo is heir to the legacy of one of Germany's finest warrior families. Going back many generations, the Zemos have ruled over their land using a well established combination of fear and intimidation, for they are unrivaled masters of swordplay and self-defense."

As they resumed walking, Steve proudly brought his shield to bear, "Don't worry, ma'am. I'm sure this Zemo's nothing I can't handle."

Peggy audibly scoffed at the captain, "You just keep telling yourself that, Rogers. So far all I've seen from you is a lot of talk and hot air. Zemo has been known to turn a battle around all by himself, using little more than a half-dozen men under his command and one sword."

The Resistance fighter shot Steve a wry smile, "I agree that we should be able to cover a lot of ground if we can push hard enough after the German retreat, but if Zemo is leading the German defensive line, you better be ready to cover our asses, because frankly, you might be the only one who can."

But Steve's confidence would not waver, "I'll be prepared for Zemo. You just be ready to do your job, okay?"

"I'm warning you, Rogers. If there's one thing you can count on with Zemo, it's that things won't go the way you planned."

Steve and Peggy made it to the roof of the store just as Captain Jack Fury raised his binoculars to his face. The mood in the city was tense, to say the least. He and his men had been camped out on the roof since early that morning, doing their best to observe and map out every move the Nazis made. So far, the information they'd discerned had been largely encouraging.

"What's the situation, Fury?" Captain America asked as he and Peggy dropped to the roof on either side of the commander.

"'Bout time you got here, Cap. I was beginning to wonder if you were gonna miss the party," Fury replied, his grim expression never changing.

"Sorry sir, I had some work that needed to get done this morning," Steve replied as he took stock of the situation.

As expected, Fury and the rest of his Howling Commandos had done their job well. They had staked out an excellent vantage point over the city from which they could easily see all of the enemy's movements without being spotted themselves. In addition, the roof provided easy access to the buildings across the street, which were still in Nazi hands and which would become an important choke point towards the interior of the city. When the time came to begin their advance on the German lines, that street would be one of their first objectives. But first they would have to wait for the last of the German supply trains to make their way through before beginning their assault.

"How long do we have?" Steve asked, taking a look through the binoculars himself.

Fury shrugged, "No more than a couple of minutes, I'd say."

"Everyone ready?"

"Yeah, we're ready," Fury said, eyeing his men, who were preparing their weapons in an almost unsettlingly calm manner. "But I don't like this, Cap. I know we have the strategic advantage right now, and the Resistance outnumbers the Nazis who are still left in the city by almost five to one, but the majority of them are just kids. They don't know how to fight. They're runnin' on anger and nerves right now, and if there's one thing I know about war, it's that anger and nerves have a way of getting you killed real fast."

"The Resistance knows what it's doing," Peggy interrupted harshly. "We can handle ourselves."

Steve turned to address both Peggy and Jack, "The FFI is willing to do whatever it takes to save Paris," he said, his strong voice catching the ears of the entire squad. "But they're poorly trained and supplied, and that's why we're here. We have to be sure to back them up when things get hairy down there. You're right, Jack, their momentum isn't going to last them until the Allied reinforcements arrive, so it's our job to give them that extra push when the situation calls for it. It won't be easy, but I know you boys specialize in rising to the occasion, and the time for that is now."

"Look," Dugan said, walking over and pointing across the city. "The Germans are almost in position. We're nearly ready."

But before they could make the last adjustments to their weapons, the Howling Commandos were distracted by a din of noise coming from several blocks away. Without warning gunshots, explosions, and shouting could be heard, steadily rising in a crescendo throughout the city. The noise began spreading like wildfire, as if all the hatred and fear that the citizens of Paris had been holding inside for years had finally been let loose. Revolution was in the air, and the French people weren't about to let this opportunity pass them by.

"Alright soldiers, that building across the road you've been watching all morning is a perfect defensive area for the Nazis during this battle, and we're going to bring it down," Captain America said, standing to his full height and walking to the back corner of the roof. "Fury, Dugan, I want two sharpshooters laying down cover fire for me. Peggy, I want you and the rest of the Howlers to hoof it across that street as soon as possible. I'll make sure that there's enough of a distraction that you'll have safe passage, but I won't be able to secure the building on my own."

"Wait...what are you doing?" Fury asked, clearly confused.

"I'm making an entrance," replied Steve, narrowing his eyes as he focused on the task at hand.

Peggy was about to protest, but it was too late. As the rest of the Howlers watched with gaping mouths, Captain America began sprinting from one side of the roof to the other. The triangular shield on his arm was pumping back and forth so fast as he ran that it became nothing but a red, white, and blue blur as he shot across the rooftop with astonishing speed. Then, with a mighty grunt, he leaped from the building and while soaring across the street with incredible grace, he brought his shield to bear in front of him, protecting himself as he crashed through the window across the way amidst audible shouts of surprise and alarm from the group of Nazi troopers stationed within.

"Why that crazy son of a gun..." Jack Fury whispered to himself, his mouth curled in a slight grin of amusement.

"Stupid is more like it," Peggy snorted, trying her best not to acknowledge the astonishment that she felt. "Come on, people. Cap's made us an opening. It'd be a shame to waste it."

"Dum Dum, get up here!" Fury shouted, adjusting the sights on his sniper rifle. "Cap's gonna need some cover while Peggy and the rest of the Howlers get into position."

Dugan dutifully dropped to the roof next to his commander, "Damn it sir, you know I hate it when you call me that."

Fury couldn't help but smile as he set his gun's sights on the first German trooper, "Life's just full of disappointments that way, Dum Dum. Get used to it."

Five hours later saw Captain America and Peggy Carter taking a quick rest on the rooftop of an apartment building overlooking the streets of Paris. The city was in an uproar. Screams, explosions, and gunfire could be heard down every street as far as the eye could see, but luckily for the Howlers, it was a scene of _organized_ chaos. Just as they had hoped, the Resistance had struck before the retreating Nazis could get their feet beneath them, and so the German troops were at a decided disadvantage considering that they were still heavily outnumbered. So far things were going well.

"Look how far we've advanced!" Peggy exclaimed as she pointed back to where the battle had started that morning. "If things keep going like this, we won't even need those Allied reinforcements!"

"Keep dreamin', lady," replied Fury, lighting up a cigar. "Th' Nazis won't keep sittin' on their heels forever. Sooner or later they're gonna strike back in force, an' when they do, they're gonna make us pay for every block we've taken in blood."

Steve nodded, "I agree. This is an unstable situation. It might be better for us to halt the attack for now. The more ground we gain, the harder it will be for us to hold it over time, and we need to conserve as many lives as possible. We'll reclaim Paris eventually."

Peggy responded with a derisive snort, "Try telling that to the Parisian people, Rogers. They've got years of repressed aggression to work through. I don't think they're gonna be satisfied until they've worked it out of their system."

Before Steve had a chance to reply, he was cut off by Gabe Jones, the Howlers' communications officer, "I don't mean to interrupt, sir, but there's been an urgent communication from FFI command."

"Well spit it out, soldier! I ain't got all day!" came Fury's gruff voice.

"It seems that Baron Zemo is leading an attack on the Great Windmills by boat along the Pantin River," said Gabe, not skipping a beat.

"Oh no..." Peggy said, her confident expression evaporating away. "Those bastards, they're really gonna do it.."

"What? What are they going to do?" Steve asked, forcefully.

Peggy's eyes had lost focus as they stared fearfully into the distance, "The Great Windmills district used to be one of the largest outdoor markets in Europe," she explained. "It was the financial heart of all France. But when the Nazi occupation began they closed it down, and since then it's been where we've stored most of the food for the poorest residents of the city."

Peggy's voice hardened as she continued, "Of course, the Germans hoarded most of the dwindling food supplies for themselves, and as a result, thousands of people starved or contracted disease through malnutrition. However, if Zemo manages to destroy the entire district, he could cripple the Resistance and thousands more innocents would die..."

"Then there's no time to lose," Steve said, resolutely. "Peggy, I need you to guide us to the Great Windmills. The Howling Commandos will stay here to keep an eye on things here. And Jack, you're coming with us."

"B-but, there's nothing we can do!" Peggy protested, shocked. "The Great Windmills are halfway across the city. We'll never make it in time!"

"We don't have a choice, miss," Cap said, peering down into the alley below. "If Baron Zemo is as strong as you claim, the Resistance soldiers in the area aren't going to have a chance of stopping him. But don't worry, I have a plan."

Steve tried to keep from blushing as he grabbed Peggy around the waist, "Are you afraid of heights?"

Peggy could barely keep from blubbering as her cheeks turned crimson, "Well, no...but I don't see what that's got to do with..."

Before she could finish Steve had turned around and grabbed Jack too, "Then hold on!"

"Ah, cripes..." Jack managed to mutter as Steve took a flying leap off the roof.

"AAAAAHHHHH!" Peggy shrieked in a ridiculously high pitched voice as the three soldiers plummeted to the ground.

In an instant they had landed in the front seat of a small Nazi vehicle that had been parked at the base of the apartment building. Steve could hear groans of protest from his two friends as they began rubbing their sore rears from the pain of the impact, but Captain America had already begun working on the next step of his plan.

"I hope one of you knows how to hotwire a car, because that's the only way we're going to make it in time," Steve said, readjusting his shield.

"Thanks for the warning!" Peggy snapped, bending over to take a look at the car's wiring. "Is it possible for you to make a plan that doesn't involve jumping off a three story roof? I'll never be able to sight straight again!"

"My apologies, ma'am," Steve said, taking the wheel as the car sputtered to life. "Now I would recommend buckling up. This is gonna be a bumpy ride."

The ride to Pantin only took a little over ten minutes, but they were the most terrifying ten minutes of Peggy's life. Weaving in and out of the tiny, mismatched roads of Paris, driving top speed all the way, through gunfire and mortar shots, she had no idea how Captain America managed it. She hadn't even realized that she had been screaming the entire way until she looked over and saw that Jack was smiling from ear to ear like a schoolboy with his hands raised high over his head as if he was on a ride at Coney Island. Steve took no notice of any of it though, as they began cruising alongside the Pantin River, looking for any sign of the Nazi taskforce.

"Look over there," Jack said, pointing down the river a way. "Do you see it?"

Steve could indeed see it. Floating slowly down the river was a massive barge, which had been laden with a small mountain of explosives. Surrounding the explosives was a company of Nazi troopers, who were busy defending their volatile ship.

Evidence of their battle could be seen all along the river. The Resistance had met the threat with a small fleet of speedboats while trying to repel the Nazis from their destination at the windmills. They weren't doing well. Steve could see several Resistance fighters still struggling in the water, their boats having sunk or spiraled out of control thanks to incoming enemy fire, eventually crashing into the shore on either side. Now there was only one left, as the Resistance soldiers were still desperately attempting to win their losing fight to protect what little food the people of Paris had left.

"We're too late..." Peggy said in a quiet voice.

"Not if I can help it," Captain America replied, gunning the engine a few times before speeding down the road again as fast as he could.

The squealing of tires on pavement did little to comfort Peggy as they began racing towards the barge, "What are you gonna do now? Those were the Resistance's last speedboats! We'll never be able to get to the barge now!"

"Don't bet on it, ma'am!" Steve shouted over the roar of the car, gritting his teeth as they approached top speed.

"Look out!" shouted Jack, pointing ahead to a large pile of rubble. "We're gonna hit it!"

"I'm _trying _to hit it!" replied Steve, going even faster now.

Peggy's mind was racing. What was Steve thinking? Then she saw it. As they approached the pile she could now see that it formed a rudimentary ramp. Steve must be hoping that if they could hit the ramp fast enough, they would fly over the river and land on the barge. But that was crazy! Not only was it likely that the pile of unstable rubble would collapse beneath them, but they certainly weren't going to be able to make it all the way out to the center of the river where the barge was. And even if they did, the impact would likely kill them all! Was Captain America stupid?

"Steve, this is suicide!" Peggy shouted, using the super soldier's name for the first time. "We'll never make it!"

"You wanna save your people? This is the only way to do it!" Captain America replied, milking the car's speed for all it was worth. "Now keep a tight grip on your weapons, we're gonna need 'em when we land!"

Peggy trembled in terror while she clenched her eyes tightly shut and gripped the door handle so hard that it hurt. For one sickening instant she felt herself lean back as the car bumped and rumbled over the refuse, losing only a fraction of its speed. Then, as Jack let out a long shout of fear, she felt the car leave the ground entirely, and for a moment that felt more like a year, she knew only the sensation of air as it tore her beret off and whipped through her golden hair while they soared as gracefully as the car could while pouring smoke and hauling two screaming passengers over the river.

"Hold on, you two!" Steve shouted as he once again grabbed his companions and jumped, shooting out from the car like a bullet.

Peggy's eyes snapped open once again as she heard the car scream in protest while it slammed into the deck of the barge, taking the Germans completely by surprise as it skidded across the deck and into the water, dragging almost half of the remaining Nazi soldiers with it into the drink.

Before she could even recover from the force of the impact or get her wits about her, she saw Captain America take a defensive stance, shield up, protecting the three of them from the incoming fire of the few remaining Nazis. Her head still spinning, Peggy began stumbling around for her gun, which had slipped from her hands during the plunge, silently cursing herself for being so out of sorts. She hadn't let herself feel that disoriented and scared since the very beginning of the war. There was just something about Rogers that seemed to catch her off guard. She made a mental promise to herself to shoot him for it later.

"Carter! Get yer head in th' game, girl!" Fury shouted at her between rounds.

"Yeah yeah, I'm good!" she shouted back, her fingers just then finding her weapon. "Let's do this!"

It was then that Jack and Peggy leaped out from behind Steve's shield, drawing enemy fire away from the super soldier as panicked cries of surprise could be heard from the thinning German ranks. Taking the Nazis off guard, Jack and Peggy found positions on opposite sides of the barge, trapping the stormtroopers between them. Ironically, the freedom fighters were now protected by the Nazi's own stores of explosives, and it seemed that the battle was finally turning their way.

Or at least it appeared that way until they heard a guttural grunt of pain coming from the direction of the super soldier.

Diverting her attention for just a moment from the fire fight before her, Peggy gasped when she saw the man who had appeared from out of nowhere standing behind the now crumpled form of Steve Rogers. He was mostly dressed in what appeared to be a standard issue troop uniform, except for the numerous, heavily polished medals which were pinned to his chest. However, the drab nature of his outfit only directed more attention to the large pink scarf that was tossed rakishly around his neck. The ensemble was completed by the smug, casual, almost bored expression on the handsome face of the man whose luxurious, jet black hair had been meticulously smoothed down over his head. This was unmistakably the man who had betrayed and murdered dozens of her own soldiers that very morning. The second in command of the Nazi forces in Paris, Baron Zemo.

"Please get up, Captain," the Baron continued in a dull tone, although he was clearly enjoying watching Steve struggle on the deck. "You're keeping everyone waiting. Of course I could have simply killed you when your attention was elsewhere, but that would have hardly been sporting of me, would it?"

"You must be...Baron Zemo..." Steve grunted as he slowly picked himself up from the Baron's staggering sneak attack.

"Please, you may call me Heinrich," replied the almost unrealistically handsome man with a cruel smile. "Although appropriate, one grows bored of always being referred to by one's title. But you have no interest of the rigors of the aristocracy, do you?"

"It's what keeps me up at night," Steve replied sarcastically, grimacing in pain as he took stock of his new adversary. "What's with the sissy pink scarf? Is mamma's boy a little too chilly?"

Zemo eyed his scarf affectionately as he spared a hand to delicately stroke it, "Oh, you _must___be referring to my one of a kind, imported, cashmere, silk-laced, deluxe neckerchief. I had it custom made by Antoinette le Febvrevique just before I had her executed in front of her children for scoffing at my cufflinks. Yes, this vibrant fuchsia hue has been the representational color of my family for nineteen generations. I realize that pink hues have grown to represent femininity to your American bourgeois culture, so I don't expect you to appreciate it, but the opinion of the American public matters little to me."

"Your privileged upbringing will do you no good here, mister," growled Steve, adopting a combative stance. "This is your last chance to surrender. Stop this boat and spare the French people, or I'll stop it for you."

"I will do nothing of the sort!" Zemo exclaimed, his face the picture of mock outrage and indignation. "Do you have any idea how difficult it was to watch the commoners load all these explosives onto this dingy barge? Why, it almost broke my heart to watch them sweat away their morning engaging in such backbreaking labor! Even the cocktail I was sipping did little to ease my angst! To stop now and let all their hard work go to waste would be simply criminal."

"What is wrong with you?" Captain America asked, leaping into action and striking with his shield at the space where Zemo had just been before he quickly dodged the attack. "Why would you make light of your own soldiers? Where would you even be without their hard work and dedication?"

As the super soldier continued his assault, Baron Zemo easily avoided each and every attack, "Don't be so hasty, my good Captain. There is a precedence to these kinds of things, you know. How is one to properly savor the thrill of battle if one does not acknowledge the protocols of war?"

"I don't..." Captain America began, but his reply was cut off as he noticed how effortlessly the Baron had avoided his attacks. Clearly his adversary was too skilled to be caught off guard with such a reckless and haphazard assault.

Without breaking a sweat, Baron Zemo bounded away from his assailant, not a single hair out of place, "My dear Captain, I'm afraid that you now find yourself so out of your league that you aren't even aware how close you are to drowning in your own ignorance. Allow me to educate you."

Realizing that if he was going to engage the enemy again he would need time to think up some kind of plan, Steve stood by and let the Baron talk.

"When engaging an enemy, there are three kinds of information one must acknowledge before beginning any successful campaign," Zemo began, his voice dripping with condescension. "What you know, what you _don't___know, and what you _don't know___you don't know."

Steve's eyes narrowed as he listened to his enemy's rant, all the while searching for the best way to attack.

"What you know is usually the easiest and most obvious information to process," the Baron continued. "It is often most advantageous if you possess far more of this type of information than your foe does."

"What you _don't___know can be harder to admit," explained Zemo, in a conversational tone. "But can often be improved upon or even guessed based on what information you do have. Limited information is better than no information at all, and can sometimes be enough to make do of most situations."

"The tricky part, the pin upon which entire worlds turn," Zemo continued, his voice dropping to a low, menacing pitch. "Is what you _don't know___you don't know. When you can't even see well enough to know what's going on around you. When you don't even have enough information to know which questions to ask, _that___is when you find yourself in the most trouble, Captain. When a blind man undertakes a task, he has enough know-how to discern his surroundings by using his other senses. It is the man who doesn't even _know___he is blind who will find himself stumbling confidently to his own doom. And I am afraid it is you who now finds himself in that very situation, my dear Captain."

"Think again, Zemo!" Steve shouted while he threw his shield at his opponent. "You don't know who you're dealing with!"

Steve had thrown his shield at the Baron's feet with lightning speed. In order to avoid it, Zemo was forced to leap backwards, leaving him open to Captain America's attack. The maneuver was designed to catch the German officer off guard, but it only partially worked. The Captain's assault had been partially blocked at the last second, and Zemo had received only a mild blow. Steve continued pushing forward, able to deliver several punches to the Baron's torso and arms, but while his strength had been enhanced by the serum, nothing seemed to damage his foe enough to give him the edge he needed. Somehow Zemo was able to evade his best attacks with a speed and precision that was utterly uncanny, and before long Captain America found that his attacks weren't even connecting at all.

Zemo continued performing his effortless dance of evasion, a wicked smile crossing his face, "What you know: you have been gifted with the American super soldier serum and trained to be the best soldier the Allied forces have to offer. You know that your enhanced strength, endurance, and stamina gives you an advantage in battle that cannot hope to be matched by any other adversary. And along with your indestructible, vibranium laced shield, you know that you should be able to easily overcome one unarmed man (such as myself) in single combat."

"You're...you're just playing with me, aren't you?" Steve asked, gasping for breath while he gritted his teeth in frustration.

Zemo grinned in reply as he gracefully leaped out of Steve's range, while the super soldier was left panting and catching his breath, trying to figure out what had just happened, "But here's what you _don't___know: You don't know that the Zemos are the most feared and respected family in the Rhineland. You don't know that our superior military might is the backbone that allowed the Fuhrer his rise to power in the first place. You don't know that in order to uphold the standards of my family, I was trained since _birth_ in the arts of combat and strategy. You don't know that at the tender age of nine, I had already bested the most renowned fencing champions the world had ever seen, and most importantly..."

Then the Baron paused, throwing Steve Rogers a look that could only be described as predatory, "...You don't know that I am _not___unarmed."

With that, Baron Zemo reached into his pocket and brought out what Captain America recognized as a very unusual hilt. Tossing it lightly above him and catching it with his other hand, the Baron gave the hilt a swift twist downward, causing it to swish through the air. Steve was then astonished to see a very thin blade extend from the golden hilt, elongating quickly before coming to a stop at about four or five feet. Then, before Steve's eyes, the segments that the blade had appeared in somehow melded together, as if by magic, resulting in a wickedly curved, dangerous weapon that put the fear of God in the super soldier's heart.

"It is truly a blade to be envied, yes?" Zemo asked, admiring the weapon at his leisure. "It is the only one of its kind in all the world. My father had it crafted for me as a present for my 18th birthday. It is made of the same vibranium metal that makes your shield so durable, and was constructed with Wakandan technology, secrets, and techniques that even I remain ignorant of. Are you ready, Captain?"

The Baron's attack was silent and deadly, and faster than anything Steve had ever imagined. Caught completely by surprise by the speed of the assault, the super soldier had already received several major lacerations before he'd even realized he was under attack. By the time he had leaped back and retrieved his shield, he had received half a dozen serious wounds and was starting to feel dizzy from loss of blood.

Zemo held his sword up so that the light of the sun sparkled off its polished surface, "Now here's what _I_ know. From watching your inexcusably blundering attacks I know that my experience in battle dwarfs your own. I know exactly how strong and fast you are and just how far I can push you until you break. I know what styles of combat you prefer and that you rely far too much on your enhanced abilities during battle and not nearly enough on your technique, which could be second to none, but clearly you prefer instead to let your tremendous potential atrophy into negligence."

Zemo spared a glance behind him before continuing, "I know that in less than two minutes we will arrive at our destination, and that you are therefor running out of both time and options. And that once we arrive at the Great Windmills, my objective will be complete, the population of Paris will have no future but one in which they shall wither away with starvation, and you, good Captain, will be dead."

Looking past the Baron, Steve's eyes widened with renewed fear. He could see the Great Windmills approaching in the distance, as the river's current carried them along with startling speed. If he didn't do something soon, the barge would crash into its target, the explosives would go off, and the people of Paris would starve to death. As beads of sweat began to appear on his brow, he fought back the overwhelming tide of panic that threatened him as he racked his brain for some way to quickly defeat the Baron who stood in his way.

"I tire of this game," Zemo said with boredom as he disdainfully eyed Captain America's ragged, bloodstained form. "I'll give credit where credit is due, the Americans did a fine job with their 'super soldier'. I haven't had this much sport in years. But sadly, like so many of their other products, you fall short of your own hype. I suppose that the Invaders shall have to elect a new leader, because you are done, my entertaining friend. Prepare for the end."

Before Steve could reply, Baron Zemo had attacked again. Captain America found that his shield was practically useless against the speed and precision with which Zemo wielded his blade. Steve was giving it all he had, but despite the added protection that his shield offered, Zemo was no longer holding back, and clearly meant to destroy Captain America once and for all.

In a matter of seconds, Steve was exhausted. With at least two dozen wounds covering his body, and blood pouring from beneath the tattered remains of his once proud uniform, he fell victim to a savage right hook from the Baron which sent him sprawling onto his back with the tip of the vibranium blade poking into his neck. Captain America gulped back his fear as Zemo sent his heavy shield skidding away with an expert flick of his wrist. For the first time since he entered the war, Steve found himself completely unarmed and helpless, totally at the enemy's mercy, with certain death staring him straight in the face.

"Hail the Fuhrer..." Zemo whispered as he prepared the killing blow.

"Look alive, Rogers!" came a loud, gruff voice from behind.

Out of the corner of his eye, Steve could see that Jack Fury had sneaked up behind the Baron, and was now firing on him with a vengeance. Unfortunately for the leader of the Howling Commandos, he barely had time to release a full volley before, with staggering speed, Zemo had reached into his pocket, picked out a small dagger, and thrown it at Jack with such blinding accuracy that the commando barely had time to react before it had sliced through his uniform and buried itself in his chest. Before his attack had hardly begun, Fury had fallen to the deck with an almost inaudible grunt of pain.

"No!" Steve shouted, taking advantage of Zemo's momentary lapse of attention and smashing his fist into the Baron's exposed face as hard as he could.

Consumed with rage over the fate of his friend, Captain America had finally found a weapon strong enough to oppose the Baron's chilling efficiency. Lost in his anger, the super soldier beat Zemo from one side of the barge to the other, snapping bones as if they were twigs. Unaware even of the infuriated roars coming from the depths of his chest, Steve Rogers did not stop his assault until a single, echoing blast shattered the air.

Looking down at his ribcage in shock, Steve stared in disbelief as what was left of his uniform quickly became soaked with blood from a fresh gunshot wound. As he collapsed to the deck, he stared at the hilt of Zemo's sword, for the first time recognizing it for what it actually was...the cleverly concealed barrel of a handgun.

Zemo brazenly blew away the smoke from the gun/swordhilt as his finger relaxed on the concealed trigger within the weapon's grip, "This is the third part of the lesson, Captain. What you _don't know___you don't know. And as you can see, this is easily the most dangerous part of the equation, for how can you prepare for what you don't even know is coming?"

The Baron paused to wipe a trickle of blood away from his previously perfect looking face as Steve struggled not to black out beneath him, "Why would you even think to ask if my sword doubled as a firearm when you possessed no information that would even begin to hint at something so ludicrous? After all, it's such a preposterous notion, eh Captain?"

Zemo tapped his head with his finger, giving Steve a mischievous smile, "What you don't know you don't know."

"Now if you'll excuse me, I suddenly find myself facing a rather busy afternoon schedule," the Baron said, suddenly turning his back on the severely wounded soldier. "For you see I not only have to blow up the Great Windmills, effectively starving the entire population of Paris, but I also have to make an appointment with the local company surgeon if he's going to bandage all these bruised ribs and make me pretty again by the time I host my dinner party tomorrow evening. The Duchess of Brandenburg is attending and if she is not completely blown away by my presence I will simply not be able to show my face in public anymo...good Heavens what happened to all my beautiful explosives!?"

Despite the fact that his vision was gradually getting darker and darker, Captain America's face broke into a wide smile. Looking across the now battered barge he found that he couldn't find a single explosive. The small mountain of deadly cargo that had been spread across the deck was nowhere to be seen. And standing directly across from Baron Zemo, confidently aiming her gun right at the aristocrat's chest, was Peggy Carter, her eyes shining in defiance and her loose blonde hair flowing in the wind.

Steve Rogers had never seen anything so beautiful in all his life.

"So it turns out that all those explosives were resting on a net that you must have used to load them onto the barge," Peggy explained, her voice arrogantly carrying over the din of battle still being waged across the city. "While you were busy cutting down the only man brave enough to stand up to you, I piled up all the dead Nazis that my friend Jack and I killed, tied the other end of the net around them, and dumped them into the water. It wasn't easy, and it took a lot of time and encouragement, but the current eventually dragged the entire net, and all the explosives with it, to the bottom of the river. Game, set, and match, pretty boy."

Zemo bowed with mock humility, "I must hand it to you, girl, that was very clever. You could learn a thing or two from this one, Captain."

Then, looking over his shoulder with a cunning expression on his face, Zemo added, "It seems you've saved the day, but remember, the most dangerous things are what you _don't know___you don't know..."

Something in Zemo's tone triggered an alarm in Steve's brain, and he tried to shout, "Peggy, look out!" but his voice was too hoarse to carry.

Unfortunately, it was too late. The Baron had pressed yet another hidden button on the side of his elaborately decorated hilt, and the passengers all felt the side of the craft shudder as a small explosion rocked the barge. Without warning three smaller, faster speedboats, which had been hidden within the bowels of the much larger barge, sped away down the river towards the Windmills, each one piloted by a German officer.

Steve could feel despair clutch the pit of his stomach as he saw that each speedboat was loaded down with yet more TNT, and they were heading towards the Great Windmills at an alarming pace. Shocked by the new development, Peggy was too stunned to do a thing as Zemo, laughing with insane energy, leaped off the side of the barge and into one of the speedboats as it raced down the river.

As the boats approached their target, Peggy ran towards Steve, crouching down and examining him as she desperately searched for anything that would help her stop the tremendous amount of blood escaping from his body.

"Peggy...I'm sorry...couldn't...stop him..." Steve breathed more than spoke, trying his best to apologize before darkness took him.

"Just shut up so I can find something to tie you back together with," Peggy replied with a harsh tone.

Then, realizing how she sounded, she looked at Steve with tears in her eyes as if she was really seeing him for the first time, "Just be quiet now, okay Steve? You realize you're the first one to ever stand up to Zemo and put a scratch on him?"

Gently she placed her hand on Steve's scarred cheek and stroked his face, "You have got to be the bravest, stupidest man I have ever met."

The last thing Steve Rogers felt before he lost consciousness was the touch of Peggy's hand on his face, as her figure was illuminated by the massive explosion that would forever mark the end of the Great Windmills.


	28. Chapter 28

(Warning: this chapter contains graphic imagery.)

The Age of Marvels: Chapter Twenty-Eight

Captain America

and the

Invaders

Part Twenty-Eight

_** During the darkest days of World War II, America stood united against the threat of the Nazi Germany war machine. Our Greatest Generation sacrificed everything in order to stem the forces of oppression from overrunning our very planet, led under the fearless banner of the greatest hero of our time, Captain America. Inspired by his courageous example, and with the aid of his misfit band of Invaders, Captain America led the forces of freedom to victory, changing his world forever.**_

New Jersey

The home of Mr. Barnes

Colonel Fury wearily rubbed his eyes and yawned as he struggled to stay awake. It wasn't that Captain America's wartime journal was boring...quite the contrary, in fact. It was just that Fury had been up all night, and he wasn't used to it any more. What he really needed was a strong, hot cup of coffee, but he didn't want to risk waking the old man to get it.

An unexpected snore from the chair across the room startled the Colonel out of his reverie. Despite his age, Fury could tell that Barnes wasn't sleeping well. He'd been tossing and turning in his chair, as well as muttering half words under his breath in his slumber. Was it possible that he was dreaming about the war? All that reminiscing was sure to have some psychological consequences. After all, surely Barnes didn't like to talk about it with just anyone.

But the Colonel knew it had to be done, as he leaned back in the couch, sighing. The information Barnes had on Captain America, while certainly dated, was valuable nonetheless, and if his organization was going to continue on with their plans, someone had to hear it first hand.

Still, everything Fury needed to know at the moment was contained within Captain America's detailed notes taken during the liberation of Paris. Steeling himself against the fatigue that threatened to claim him, Fury continued reading.

_August 20, 1944_

_ Dear James, _

_ I woke up this morning in a makeshift hospital near FFI headquarters. The doctor said that my recovery was amazing, and that despite the scars which now covered my body and the astonishing amount of blood I lost, I had actually suffered no major injuries. I might even be free to leave as early as this afternoon. Unfortunately, it's hard to dwell on this good news when compared with the shame I feel._

_ Yesterday was a humbling and sobering experience. I had my keister handed to me by a rich snob who used nothing but a fancy fencing sword. I have no excuse. I never thought I'd say this, but he was just better than me. He was faster, more experienced, and far better trained than even we were. I'm lucky to be alive._

_ At least I haven't been left to wallow in self-pity by myself. Jack Fury keeps me company from the next cot. He took a stab wound to the chest, but luckily, the doctors say that it's not life threatening. When he was told that he would have to stay an extra day or two, he actually laughed at the physician and said that he'd be damned if he was going to stay there a day longer than a star spangled clown like me. Heh, that's Jack all over._

_ I also found, to my surprise and delight, that Peggy Carter hasn't left my bedside since I arrived. Despite the pressure she's received as a commanding officer from the resistance, she's been getting all her intel delivered to the hospital and it is from here that she has been issuing her orders. Of course, Peggy hardly fits the profile of the doting, caring nursemaid. Because of her decidedly hostile demeanor and tendency to shout at random passers-by, the staff is terrified of her. And I can't blame them. The only time she's approachable is when she's around Jack and I. According to Fury, up until recently Baron Zemo has been considered untouchable. He has thus far emerged from even the most dangerous firefights completely unscathed. Though we lost the battle yesterday, I apparently managed a feat that has not been accomplished since the beginning of the war...I wounded Zemo. By proving that the Baron is not as bulletproof as he claims, I have struck a blow to the Nazis, and that kind of morale boost has done wonders for the Resistance, despite the loss of the Windmills. It's also earned Peggy's respect, especially since the death of her men at the cruel hands of Zemo the other day. Jack also claims that she's worried about us, and that she deals with her concern by acting angry. I'd disagree with him, except for the way her lip curls into a barely perceptible half-smile every time she's around. _

_ Is it just me, or is there actually something between Peggy and I? I'm probably just imagining things. I haven't so much as had a girl look my way since the fourth grade, and that was when Colleen Fincklestein caught me with my finger up my nose. Still, there's something about the way she acts when our eyes meet..._

_ Oh well, I can't let myself become distracted from the war effort. Despite the crippling loss of the Great Windmills, the resistance soldiers on. Commander Tanguy is apparently already hard at work coordinating with the Free French units in Britain, attempting to requisition food and supplies for the coming winter months. When the battle is won, the population of Paris should have enough food to make due until new crops can be sown next spring._

_ As far as the battle itself goes, thanks to the heroic efforts of the remaining Howling Commandos, and the brave sacrifices of the resistance volunteers, we seem to actually be holding the lines. I would not have thought that the passion of the Parisian militia could continue to burn this brightly for this long, but the French people are not to be underestimated._

_ It is with this in mind that Tanguy has ordered several squads to invade German interests on the outer limits of the city. With the battle going as well as can be expected, and the bulk of the Nazi forces invested elsewhere, I can't say I disagree with him. And even though I'm still a little weak from the shameful beating I took yesterday, I think Peggy, Jack, and I may sneak out of here as soon as the doctor's back is turned so we can get back to work. After all, Captain America doesn't just lay around while lives are at stake._

August 19, early afternoon

Fort de Romainville

Near the outskirts of Paris

A deafening blast rocked the courtyard as the heavy doors blocking the entrance way collapsed beneath the onslaught of the limited heavy artillery that the French Resistance had managed to cobble together. Before the smoke had even cleared, Captain America had leaped through the opening, shield up, ready to deal with any and all opposition that he might encounter.

Their approach to the fort had been all too easy. They had found no trace of the enemy since they had begun their journey to the stronghold, and so far they had yet to spy a single guard or sentry. This had merely served to make Steve extra cautious as they entered the facility. He knew that if the Nazis were trying to spring a trap, that it would look just like this. Peggy had insisted that the German forces were spread far too thin as it was, holding the lines against the FFI within the city, and that they could hardly spare any extra men to set a trap way out here; but Steve thought it would be better to err on the side of caution.

He knew before the smoke of the artillery had dissipated and he was joined by Jack and Peggy that they had nothing to fear, but his heart sank into the pit of his stomach as he noticed for the first time the scene that surrounded him. The fort had been totally abandoned, and all that remained was death.

Steve and Jack had been under the impression that they were assaulting an old fort that the Nazis had modified into a military installation. Peggy was the one who had insisted that it was more of an internment camp. Sadly, the information that the Resistance had on it had been sadly lacking, as no one who entered the Fort de Romainville was ever seen again. And now it was obvious why.

Steve fought back the horror and nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. Spread out across the courtyard were hundreds of bodies. Most of them were covered in filth and had clearly been starved and malnourished before finally being killed. Steve could see the signs from where he was standing that many of them had been tortured at some point, and probably raped. Almost all of them were women, with a few children scattered among them. He gagged involuntarily as the overwhelming stench from the corpses reached him and the cloud of flies which covered the bodies enveloped the super soldier inside their morbid shroud.

Fury rose from his crouched position where he had been examining some of the dead, "I've seen this before, Captain. The Krauts call these places 'internment camps', where they detain and 'reeducate' those that they consider a detriment to society."

Jack stopped to spit derisively at the ground, "But those murdering bastards don't give a damn about reeducation. Let's call this what it is...extermination. Ain't that right, Carter?"

Peggy had sunk to her knees near the entrance to the fort as the rest of the squad slowly filed in behind her, "They...they would come in the night, shouting and beating on the doors," she said, holding her face in her hands and her voice cracking with emotion. "Without any warning they would storm any random house and drag whole families out...and we never saw them again."

Steve had never seen anyone so broken as she continued talking, holding back tears, "At first the Nazis would only take people they thought had some connection to the Resistance, but after a while they just started taking anyone."

"The Resistance believed that the Germans were just using the fort for detainment, but soon we discovered caravans loaded with prisoners leaving for God knows where. Eventually the Nazis began only keeping female prisoners in the fort. You could smell the pestilence from almost a mile away. ...But we had no idea it was like this..."

"They literally worked their prisoners to death," Jack continued, as Peggy was no longer capable of speaking through her tears. "The victims worked twenty hour shifts, day and night, surviving on almost non-existent portions of watered down soup for sustenance, until they just couldn't move any more. Disease would have run rampant through the camp. People would spend all night laying in a pile of the dead, suffering with diarrhea and dehydration until they had completely soiled themselves and there was nothing left inside. Then the Germans would put the stronger prisoners to work burying the dead, their own mothers, sisters, and daughters."

"Many of them died digging their own mass graves," said Fury, his words heavy with unimaginable sorrow. "These death camps are spread all across Europe now. The Nazis built the most effective murder factories in the history of mankind. Their goal was to wipe out as many innocent men, women, and children in as little time as possible. It's a testament to their monstrous efficiency."

For just a moment Fury let himself be overwhelmed by his frustration and horror, screaming as he kicked a discarded helmet across the yard in his anger, "Fuck the dirty bastards straight to hell!"

Despite his friend's words, Steve still couldn't believe what he was seeing. These women hadn't been adversaries or even Resistance sympathizers. They had just been innocent, ordinary citizens, forced to watch as their city had slowly crumbled around them. They had been kidnapped, imprisoned, and tortured, and finally had died after months of burying their own countrymen. How was this possible? How could something like this have happened? How could the Germans have attempted to exterminate an entire civilization like that?

"I don't understand," Steve finally managed to say, his voice a small and quivering shadow of itself. "How could this have happened? How could we not have known? They never said anything about this in the States..."

"Of course they didn't!" Peggy shouted, leaping up from her position on the floor with a sudden passion that caught Steve and Jack completely off guard. "Of course you didn't hear about it! Oh, the information was out there, Rogers, but all you idiotic, self-righteous Americans want to hear about is your precious victory and glory!"

Peggy stormed up to Steve, insane anger burning in her eyes even as her tears streamed down her face, "You file into your theaters in your safe, comfortable masses, patting yourselves on the back for shelling out a few bucks to buy war bonds, or for writing an encouraging letter to the 'boys overseas', and after your few minutes of entertainment, where they tell you nothing but nice, safe, encouraging news about the war, you get to go back home and sleep in your warm beds, proud of your country for effortlessly swooping in and saving the day from those stupid, oafish, bumbling Nazis!"

"Wait...I don't..." Steve tried to say.

But Peggy wasn't finished, "Meanwhile, people are dying over here en masse!" she shouted, pounding the air with her tightly balled up fists. "My friends and neighbors are being carted away in piles of the dead, their lives ending in a meaningless pool of their own filth while you get to lounge on your own behinds and everything is being taken away from us! Everything!"

"Now hold on, you're not being fair!" Steve tried to protest, not a little angry himself.

"This is how my family died, Rogers!" Peggy countered, screaming with such ferocity that she could barely be understood at all. "One night those German bastards came for my family, and they were just quietly escorted out of our home with barely a protest. I saw them weeping silently from my hiding place across the street, knowing what was coming next, knowing we would never see each other again. And why? Just because we were American expats. We were sentenced to die just because we weren't French, and so we weren't worthy of living in their purified version of France."

"I never got to say goodbye to my mother...I never got to tell my father that I loved him!" she said, quieter now, but with no less rage in her voice. "You Americans knew all about this...and you did nothing. You had all the information, but it was so much easier to ignore it than do anything about it. Even now we fight and die while your men take their sweet, leisurely time getting here."

Now her face was mere inches from Steve's, pure hatred emanating from her like a wave, "So yeah Steve, this is _your _fault. This carnage...this wretched, vomitous filth, it's all on your head. You want someone to blame? Why don't you try blaming yourself."

And with that, Peggy Carter turned and walked away into the fort, leaving Steve Rogers standing alone amongst the dead.

Peggy cringed as she swung the heavy iron door open, its rusty hinges squeaking so loud she could hear it echoing down the dark hallway behind her. Cautiously she entered the room, always making sure her rifle was ready in case anything should go wrong.

It took a moment for her eyes to penetrate the deep gloom that kept the corners of the large room hidden from her...and she fought back the all too familiar wave of nausea that threatened to sweep away the last semblance of self control at her disposal.

The windowless, brick room was only lit by a single lantern in the corner, tentatively flickering with only just enough light to illuminate the grisly scene within. The far wall was painted with dark red splatters...blood from the heap of murdered women that covered the floor in a dense, putrid mass.

Peggy's eyes widened with involuntary horror. The women would have been marched inside, dressed mostly in rags which did little to hide the most intimate areas of their bodies, and lined up facing the wall, their backs turned to their Nazi handlers so they couldn't even see what was about to happen.

It would all be over in one sickening instant. The German officer would have barked out the order, and the soldiers would have opened fire, executing the helpless prisoners where they stood with terrifying ease.

Peggy could feel tears welling up in her eyes despite the revulsion that she felt. Some of the women would have been sobbing, some only weeping silently, and many, she suspected, would have just stood there, apathetic to their fate, empty, flaccid, hollow faces exposing their exhausted, decrepit, husks of souls to the world. The horror in the room had taken them, and filled the chamber with its eternal musk.

As Peggy slowly walked across the room, unable to tear her gaze from the lifeless corpses beneath her, she couldn't help but wonder how her people had let this happen. How could the Resistance have allowed this to go on? Oh she could easily recall the endless strategy meetings explaining that they had neither the manpower nor the resources to liberate the camp, and that they'd only end up supplying the Nazis with more prisoners...but those carefully constructed lies rang hollow within her mind now.

How could she have let this happen?

Suddenly she came to a stop at the body beside her. Peggy peered closer as she noticed that the corpse looked familiar, a sickening wave growing inside as she realized that she was staring at the ashen remains of her little sister.

Despite the disgust welling up within, she couldn't bring herself to leave the body. Her sister had been here...had died here, taken in the night right in front of her, while Peggy stood by impotently and did nothing. She had been dragged here against her will, used up, starved and abused until everything she had been or ever dreamed of being had shriveled up and died in some dark corner of her soul. And then, when she had been reduced to a shivering shadow of her former self, when she had been crushed and remade against her will into nothing but a walking skeletal drone, when everything inside that had made her special, had made her an individual, had made her a human being, had made her smile and laugh and shine had been stolen from her, only then had she been walked into this room like a sick dog, lined up, and disposed of without a second thought.

Inhumane didn't even begin to describe the nightmare that had claimed the life of her poor sister, and of her entire family.

All rational thought abandoned Peggy as she collapsed on the blood soaked floor, trembling in unrestrained nauseating horror as the tears began to flow down her grimy face. She had allowed this to happen, had ignored the warning signs even as Hitler's promises of death loomed ever closer. What few actions she had taken to delay or stop it had simply been too little too late. A flimsy and halfhearted defense against a fate that was too terrible to face.

When the war had begun they reasoned that it would never find its way to France. When the Nazis had crossed their borders and were marching across the countryside they reasoned that they would never step foot in Paris. When the city fell, and the swastikas were being raised over the Hotel Meurice, they reasoned that they would still be safe, and that surely nothing would really change. When they were carting off their friends and neighbors, who were looking at her with that defeated, silently pleading look in their eyes, they reasoned that when it was all over, everything would go back to the way it had been before. And when they had come for her family in the night, and dragged them off to their camps, Peggy had sworn that she would do something to bring a stop to it all, or die trying...but she never saw any of them again. And she had nobody to blame but herself, because when she'd actually had the power to change anything, she had instead done nothing...nothing. And now her sister had paid the price.

The horror inside Peggy had been slowly building as, trembling with barely restrained terror, she looked down at her own quaking body. She might as well have built the fort with her own two hands. If she had done something when she still had the power to change things, none of this would have happened. It was her fault they were gone. All the loneliness and terror, all the fighting and hopelessness that she had felt since then, it was all her fault. It was her fault that her brother and sister...mother and father were gone. They were never coming back, and it was all her fault.

Suddenly Peggy couldn't take it any more. A primal shriek of pure horrified, broken despair escaped her throat and echoed down the passages of the Fort de Romainville so loudly that it could even be heard throughout the courtyard outside. Collapsing into a shivering, weeping ball, she cried as she had never cried before, flecks of other people's blood smearing across her uniform, as she felt something fundamentally, indefinably human crumble away inside her.

It felt as if she had been alone in the dark room, so isolated and buried away from the light of the sun, for ages before she felt a pair of strong, rough hands grab her by the shoulders and forcibly hoist her up from her position on the cold brick floor. Before she knew it, in a flash of colors and sound, she was outside, vomiting again and again on the green grass and course dirt below.

"Yer okay, yer okay, darlin'. Yer out now. Just breathe easy, yer fine. Yer out in th' sunshine with ol' Jack now. Everything's gonna be okay," said the gravelly voice of Jack Fury in her ear, sounding uncharacteristically soothing as he steadied her against the force of her own heaving body.

When she was finally done, Peggy slumped against her friend, breathing deeply for the first time in what felt like an eternity. Her vision seemed to slowly return, the world appearing blurry at first as her brain once again began processing what her eyes were relaying. For a minute they just sat there, breathing together as she stared without focusing at the white clouds which slowly meandered by overhead.

"How can something like clouds and sky and sun exist up here when..." her voice trembled as she spoke for the first time. "...When all of _that _is buried down there?"

Jack shook his head, "I don't know, darlin'," he said, his voice more hushed and calm than usual. "I don't know if there is a God, and what, if anything, He has to do with something like this. I don't know how th' world keeps turnin' when people do things like this to each other. I'm just a soldier, an' I only know how to do one thing, an' that's how to get back up an' keep on walkin' after life shows you somethin' like this. That's all you have to do."

"Just...just keep on walking?" asked Peggy, her small voice caught in her throat.

"All you gotta do is put one foot in front of the other," Jack's comforting voice said. "Just one step at a time. That's all ya gotta concentrate on, an' pretty soon it'll be enough."

Peggy took a deep breath, "One step at a time. ...I think I can do that."

"Atta girl."

Peggy sat up in the grass, supporting her own weight for the first time since they had exited the camp. Absentmindedly she wiped the dirt from her pants as she forced herself to look back at the fort and saw Steve Rogers standing in the entrance, silently watching them with a solemn, soft, endless sadness on his face.

"What you said to him back there, it wasn't right," Fury said, his voice having lost none of its quiet calm. "It ain't fair to blame Steve. This ain't his fault...an' it ain't yours either."

"I know," Peggy replied, her voice sounding alien to her ears. "I don't know what happened back there. I just...lost it. I don't..."

Peggy's voice failed her, and the only sound they could hear was that of the wind whispering through the grass. Fury took his time before he spoke again.

"He likes you, you know," he said, not even the hint of a smile on his face. "An' you feel something for him, too. Don't try ta hide it. I wasn't born yesterday."

Peggy no longer had the energy to even pretend to lie, "There's something about him, Jack. Something about his spirit that reminds me of the way life used to be, before all this, before the war turned it into something decayed and ugly. For so long life has been nothing but screaming and scrambling and blood. I haven't been living, not really, only surviving. Just trying to make it one more day, one more step."

Peggy raised her face to meet Jack's, "For some reason, Steve reminds me that life can be so much more than that."

"Yeah, I know what you mean," Fury replied, looking back at Steve's still form in the distance. "I dunno where they found him, but he's one in a million."

"I hate him for it," Peggy said, her gaze falling to the ground again. "I hate him for reminding me of who I used to be. I hate him for making me feel this way."

"What way?"

"Hopeful," Peggy answered in a lifeless voice. "I hate him for bringing back all those feelings...those dreams. It was so much easier to just give up, to accept life for what it had become, rather than to strive and fight deep down inside for the strength to keep believing that things could somehow, impossibly, one day turn out all right."

"Do you even know how hard it is to hold on to the hope that tomorrow could be better than today?" she asked, an imploring expression on her face. "But no matter what he goes through, he still keeps that hope alive, and God help me, but he makes me want to do it too."

Jack just responded with a smile as he put his hand on her shoulder.

"Steve Rogers is the stupidest, silliest oaf I have ever had the displeasure of babysitting," Peggy said with a sour expression. "...But I think I'm falling in love with him, Jack."

Fury lit up a cigar and took a long puff before replying, "You gotta tell him, Peggy, an' sooner rather'n later. This war don't give you a lotta chances fer happiness, an' Lord knows you gotta take advantage of something like this when you can...before it's too late."

"I thought you didn't approve of romance on the battlefield," said Peggy with a sly look.

"I don't," Fury growled, taking another puff of his cigar. "So keep it to yerself an' outta my sight. Th' less I know about it, the better."

Peggy paused, a thoughtful smile playing across her face, "I'm surprised at you, Jack. I never pegged you as the sensitive type. ...You got any kids?"

Fury managed a crooked smile with the cigar still in his mouth, "A little girl, back home. Named her Maggie, after her mom. Think about her every day."

"I bet she thinks you're the best dad ever."

Jack laughed, "Sure, now she does. But just wait 'till she starts datin'. That girl ain't never leavin' the house unless she's accompanied by Dugan an' half th' Howling Commando unit."

Peggy couldn't believe that she was laughing after her recent experience, "Stop messing with me, Jack!"

"I'm serious," Fury joked as he helped Peggy off the ground and they started the long walk back towards the convoy parked outside the fort. "I'm subjecting whatever boys she brings home to a full background check and cavity search before every date. That'll make 'em think twice about askin' out _my _little girl."

As the sun peeked out from behind the clouds, Peggy couldn't help but think that perhaps there was yet hope for the world as long as people like Jack and Steve were still a part of it. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad for her to, just this once, allow herself to feel again, even if it was only with a clown like Steve Rogers.


	29. Chapter 29

The Age of Marvels: Chapter Twenty-Nine

Captain America

and the

Invaders

Part Twenty-Nine

_**During the darkest days of World War II, America stood united against the threat of the Nazi Germany war machine. Our Greatest Generation sacrificed everything in order to stem the forces of oppression from overrunning our very planet, led under the fearless banner of the greatest hero of our time, Captain America. Inspired by his courageous example, and with the aid of his misfit band of Invaders, Captain America led the forces of freedom to victory, changing his world forever.**_

New Jersey

The home of Mr. Barnes

"...snrk...GRUNT..._**SSNORKGLBLG!**_"

Colonel Fury shot straight up from the couch, "Yaahh! Not in the face!" he shrieked, jolted out of his dream by the unusually loud snoring coming from Mr. Barnes, who was sound asleep in his chair.

Fury shot the old man a dirty look, "How can you sleep through all that racket, Barnes? You sound like a sick moose slowly being strangled to death."

Sighing, the Colonel sat back down and began ruffling through Steve Rogers' old letters, trying to find where he'd left off before he began drifting to sleep himself. With a cross look on his face, he checked his watch. He only had a few hours until the sun would begin to rise. He didn't even want to think about how he would feel during work later that day, but he had no choice. It was important that he learn everything he could about Captain America as soon as possible, so he had no other option but to continue his research.

Fury tried blinking his eye to clear his vision in an effort to keep himself awake a little longer, and then doggedly dove back into the letter.

_August 21, 1944_

_ Dear James,_

_ Things have finally begun to settle down around here, although I fear this may be only the quiet before the storm. This morning I escorted Commander Tanguy to a meeting with the leader of the Nazi forces, General von Choltitz, where they discussed a temporary truce. This strategy may sound absurd, but I can understand the reasoning behind it._

_ Despite the overwhelming odds, with assistance from myself and the Howling Commandos, the French Resistance has performed admirably over the past few days. As you know, passion and bloodlust can only fuel a battle for so long, but the determination and courage demonstrated by the people of Paris has been awe inspiring. They simply refuse to give up their city to the Germans, and it is because of their unceasing fortitude that we seem to have reclaimed much of it._

_ The Nazis have been driven back to a number of isolated strongholds within Paris, however, the Resistance lacks the supplies, ammunition, and heavy artillery to strike the final blow to their oppressors. Ironically, the Krouts find themselves in a similar position, since they lack the manpower to launch another attack, as any offensive they might attempt would soon be overwhelmed by the sheer numbers that Tanguy now has at his disposal._

_ The men's spirits are high right now, as many of them believe that the battle is all but won...but I don't know if I agree. Something doesn't feel right to me. It's all been too easy. I know that doesn't make a lot of sense, considering everything we've been through, but I've fought long enough in this war to know how the Nazis work, and I can sense that they're up to something. Well, all we can do is pitch in by gathering more supplies and reinforcing the trenches and other strategic points as best we can, right? Maybe this ceasefire will turn out for the best._

_ I've got enough on my mind as it is. Peggy hasn't said three words to me since what happened at the fort. I asked Jack if he knew what was going on, but he just grunted something about how it wasn't his problem. That man has the social skills of a tree stump._

_ It's weird, though. Peggy doesn't appear to be mad at me, but she ignores and avoids me all the same. I'm not sure what I did to put her off in the first place, and I wonder if I'll ever find out. If there's one thing in this world that I know nothing about, it's women. God knows I'd rather face a dozen angry Nazis than have to stare down the barrel of that scowl of hers any day of the week._

_ Hope things are going better for you, James, I'll..._

Steve was startled by a knock at the door. Quickly putting his pencil down and folding the letter so that it could not be read, he told his visitor to come inside, only to find himself shocked once again as none other than Peggy Carter entered. Eyes wide with something resembling panic, Steve immediately stood up, painfully aware of how awkward he looked.

"Good Lord Steve, there's a girl in your room!" he thought to himself, a nervous smile playing across his face. "What do I do? What do I do? WHAT DO I DO?"

"Peggy!" Steve managed to squeak. "Uh...what can I do to you? OH, I'm sorry, I meant what can I do _with _you, FOR YOU, FOR YOU! What can I do _for _y..."

"Shut up, Steve," Peggy interrupted with her usual impatience. "I'm not here to shout at you."

Steve had to admit he was a little confused, "But you _sound _like you're here to shou..."

"Well I'm not!" Peggy shouted, her angry voice instantly silencing the super soldier.

Steve tried to ignore Peggy's amazing golden hair as it almost seemed to shimmer even in the dim light of the room, and instead stared dismally at the floor. So much for his not so secret fantasies of romance. This was the last time he was ever going to let himself fall for someone...

"Look, this is hard for me to say," Peggy started, cutting off Steve's bitter thoughts. "But I can't put it off any more...I'm sorry."

"P-pardon?" Steve asked, stuttering in his surprise.

Peggy Carter was apologizing to _him_? Clearly something was wrong with this scenario. Was it possible that the real Peggy Carter had been kidnapped and replaced by an extremely untalented German spy? What was going on here?

"Don't make me repeat myself Rogers, this is hard enough already," snapped Peggy, a vein in her forehead throbbing with irritation.

"I just...I don't understand..." Steve replied, sinking back into his chair.

Peggy sighed, the anger melting out of her as she walked across the room and slumped down into a sitting position on Steve's bed, "Okay Steve, the truth is that it was unfair of me to blame you for what happened at the Fort de Romainville. You had nothing to do with it and your country certainly didn't either. I've spent the last week trying to show you that the French can handle our own problems, but then the first time we encountered something I had trouble swallowing I blamed everyone else...though why I blamed you most of all is beyond me. I'm sorry."

Steve looked up from the floor and into Peggy's eyes, and for the first time he saw a genuine kindness there that he'd never seen before, "It's okay, Peggy. It was hard for all of us."

"Thanks, Steve," Peggy replied, in a soft voice that she was unfamiliar with.

An awkward pause enveloped the room as both its occupants avoided looking at each other.

"Well, I'd better go," Steve finally said, getting up and grabbing his shield before heading for the door. "Jack's gonna need my help moving supplies to reinforce the northern barricades or there'll be hell to pa..."

Before he could finish, Peggy shot up from the bed, crossed the room, and placed a hand firmly on his shoulder, "I know you like me, Steve."

Steve was so shocked and frightened that his brain had instantly turned into a static filled panic void, "Wha..uhh...buhh...?" he eloquently managed to blurt. "But I..."

Now Peggy was standing right next to him, her face only inches from his own, a soft, almost pleading expression in her infinitely blue eyes, "And I want you to know that I like you, too."

Now Steve's brain wasn't working at all. At some point he became aware that his jaw was still moving up and down as if he was talking, but no sound was coming out. He felt just like he had when he was a little kid being thrust into the ocean for the first time when he learned how to swim. If only James was around to tell him what he should do. Wait, he didn't want anyone around to see him like this! What was he thinking?

It was while Steve was in the middle of his mental maelstrom that Peggy spoke again, "You have to understand, Steve. I haven't felt this way about anyone since before the war, and it makes me uncomfortable. I want to take my time with this so we can figure out where we want to go from here, but I know we might not have that time. Like I said, we're in the middle of a war, and I'm afraid if we don't take this chance, right now, while we've got it, we might not be around long enough to get another one. Do you know what I mean?"

Steve knew exactly what she meant, and he tried to tell her so, but his brain and his mouth were no longer operating on the same wavelength, "But...uhh...I don't understand. Why me?"

Peggy replied sarcastically, "Well, it's definitely not your charming way with words, or your super-sized, garish, American flag costume either...although you do fill it out quite nicely," she added, biting her lip and placing her hand against Steve's chest, causing him to inwardly gawk with a mixture of emotions that he was utterly unfamiliar with. "But if you want to know the truth, I think it has something to do with the fact that even though you've seen every horror that this war has to offer, you refuse to let it change you. There isn't a soldier in the Resistance that hasn't let this war turn them into a jaded, cynical, pessimistic shell of themselves, including me...but somehow you haven't."

Shocked beyond words, Steve could only stare into Peggy's face, which was now so close that he could feel her warm breath on his cheek, "You have a strength inside that has nothing to do with whatever serum they gave you," she said, her eyes looking deep into his. "There's a goodness in you that I desperately need to know. It's almost like you can still see that bright future that the rest of us are too dead to see, and I want to be able to find that future again, Steve. When I look at you, sometimes it feels like it's almost within reach..." she said, her voice slowly fading to nothing.

Steve tried to respond, but his voice completely failed him. The rest of the room seemed to fade away and all he could feel was her body against his, her hand on his chest, her warmth intermingled with his own, as they grew ever closer. His eyes closed and his heart beat painfully in his chest as the scent of her grew strong around him. For the first time since he could remember, there was no war, no pain, no dread, no terrible fear, no death...there was nothing but the two of them, sharing an instant in time so precious and special that it could never be again.

And then she swore as their foreheads unexpectedly bonked clumsily together, instantly dissolving the atmosphere and leaving behind an irritatingly painful awkwardness.

"What the hell was that, Rogers? What happened to all that famous super soldier coordination you had?"

"I'm sorry!" Steve shouted, his face turning red. "I've never kissed a girl before! They didn't exactly cover that in basic training!"

"You've never kissed a girl before?" Peggy shouted back, unbelieving. "How is that even possible? Just how old are you anyway?"

"It's nothing to be ashamed of!" Steve defensively replied, his voice rising an octave higher than usual. "You wouldn't know it to look at me now, but before the serum I was...uh...a bit more petite than the average guy."

"_Petite_?" repeated Peggy, her forehead vein making another appearance.

"I guess you could say I was a bit scrawny!" Steve clarified, angrily. "It's not _my _fault I couldn't get a date! Girls don't exactly flock around a guy who collects number two pencils and spends his spare time sketching scenes from Mark Twain books!"

"What?!" Peggy replied, now almost shrieking. "I don't even know how to respond to that! What are you..."

But she never got to finish her sentence, "Excuse me, sirs," said Dugan as he popped open the door and poked his head in, bowler hat, handlebar mustache, and all. "Just thought you'd like ta know that they can hear you all the way down th' hall. The boys are takin' bets on what base you'll get too, if ya want in on it."

Peggy and Steve were instantly silenced as their faces turned an unhealthy shade of red.

"Oh, an' Captain Fury wants ya topside ASAP," Dugan added, turning back into the hall. "Better hurry, too. He said you were supposed ta be there ten minutes ago, an' if he has to wait much longer, he's gonna force feed you your own shield."

Steve eyed his shield cautiously.

Dugan shrugged adding, "His words, not mine," and left.

Peggy's face still boasted an unnatural shade of pink as she straightened her uniform in preparation for work, "We better get out there, Steve. We don't want to keep Jack waiting."

"Yeah," Steve agreed, trying not to betray the uncertainty he was feeling.

What if he'd just ruined his one chance with Peggy? Would there ever be another opportunity to tell her how he really felt? What was he going to do?

But before he could say a word he looked up to find her smiling at him in a way he'd never seen before, "Don't worry, Rogers. I haven't given up on you yet."

And before he could do a thing, she had turned around and kissed him on the cheek before dashing out the door, leaving the stunned super soldier with his mouth hanging open, staring with disbelief out into the hallway.

Steve had been worried that he wouldn't be able to concentrate on the day's tasks, considering everything that had just happened between himself and Peggy back in his room, but the devastation of Paris caused by the battle outside proved depressingly effective at clearing his head. The rebellion had been going on for days now, and the piles of rubble and blood soaked remains littering the streets tended to have a sobering effect on even the most hardened soldier. And Steve found his thoughts dwelling on the war as he entered the transport that was waiting for him. After a short trip through what was left of the city he met up with Jack and Peggy where the Resistance had established their front line, which was directly facing one of last remaining German strongholds.

"'Bout time you showed up," Jack grumbled, clearly unhappy. "I was afraid you weren't comin'. What happened? Get tied up havin' tea with th' Commander?"

Steve restrained himself from throwing Fury a sour look as he exited the transport, "What do you have for me, Jack?"

Fury led Steve up to the roof of the nearest building, where the Howlers were bustling about, busy organizing and storing supplies and ammunition, "Well, we're just putting in th' finishing touches on our new barricades. We figure we got th' Nazis fairly well surrounded by now with all th' new trenches. We may not have th' firepower to end this, but chances are we can lay siege to most of these strongholds 'til reinforcements arrive in a few days. The men feel pretty good about this, Cap."

"You don't say?" Peggy interrupted, frowning. "Well then why are these supply crates just sitting in that pile way over there? We might as well just have the postman deliver these right to the Germans. Let me get these stored away."

"By all means," Jack said, moving out of Peggy's way and dragging Steve after him.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Fury addressed the super soldier, "I don't like this, Steve. We know the Germans are in there, hiding behind the walls of their fort, an' we can tell that they're moving around, preparing for something, but we have no idea what it might be. Something's goin' on, Steve, an' I don't like it."

"I agree," Steve said, a deep frown on his face. "But there's nothing we can do for now but continue with our current strategy. My gut tells me we're in for more action before reinforcements arrive, but the smartest thing to do is continue digging these trenches around the German fortifications in an effort to surround and paralyze them. Hopefully this will be all it takes to keep them isolated in their strongholds, but if not, we should be prepared for a possible enemy offensive."

"If you say so..." Jack replied, uneasily. "Wait, did you hear that?"

Steve's eyes quickly darted towards the makeshift German fortress across the street as a dim rumbling could be heard by all the assembled Resistance militia. He could feel the familiar stirrings of fear welling in his stomach as his heart froze in his chest. The rumbling within the enemy camp grew louder and louder while the men clutched their weapons fearfully, all activity stopped as they wondered what new horrors awaited them.

Suddenly the doors to the stronghold burst open as a cloud of smoke and dust poured from within. The French forces readied their weapons and crouched within their trenches, trying to present the smallest targets possible. With a shout of defiance, they opened fire on the enemy, bullets blazing trails through the thick smoke which hid their targets. But they soon found that their fierce onslaught had achieved absolutely nothing, as three enormous tanks rolled out from the base, cannons already leveled at the Resistance's positions.

Captain America wasted no time scrambling up from his position on the roof above, "Retreat! Retreat!" he shouted, waving his shield above him to catch the attention of the soldiers.

But he knew it was already too late. By the time the French had risen to their feet, the tanks had already taken aim. Their first volley was enough to completely scatter the French ranks, blasting enormous craters in the trenches that they had spent hours and hours digging and destroying whatever hope of cover they had provided. The entire front line had been routed in a matter of seconds, and Steve could only stare on in horror as the scattered remains of the soldiers came under fire by a column of German troops who were filing out of the base from behind the protective cover of their tanks.

As Jack set about communicating with his Commandos to coordinate a counterstrike in order to cover the retreating Resistance, Steve combed the scene below for any sign of Peggy. She had been down there when the tanks emerged, busy moving supplies, and he could only pray that she was okay. There! He spied her taking refuge behind one of the buildings on the other side of the block. Steve breathed a sigh of relief. She had been smart to duck through the cramped alleyways of the city to avoid the oncoming German lines instead of fleeing through the wider streets, as most of the Resistance forces had. She would be safe there until the rest of the Howlers met up with her.

But this was not the time to worry about Peggy, Steve decided, hoisting his shield resolutely. His job now was to cover the Resistance retreat until they could decide what to do next. The German Panzer tanks were a force to be reckoned with, to be sure. Just one blast from their main cannons could level an entire building or wipe out a concentrated squad of troops with little effort, and three of them presented quite a challenge indeed; but what they offered in raw firepower they lacked in speed and agility, as they could be quite slow and cumbersome in the narrow streets of Paris. A determined look crossed Steve's face. He was positive that he and the Howlers could slow them down until the rest of the Resistance arrived. He still wasn't sure what the Nazis were trying to pull, but they had definitely overplayed their hand, and now he was going to shut them down.

But just as Cap prepared to leap from the building onto one of the advancing tanks, a hand shot out and held him back, "Steve, don't," Jack said, his other hand still holding the backpack phone he had been speaking into.

"What are you talking about, soldier?" Steve asked, wresting himself away from Fury's grasp. "Get on your feet. If we can slow them down until reinforcements arrive we can put a stop to this right now."

Jack shook his head, "That's th' thing, Steve. Reinforcements ain't coming. This isn't an isolated incident. Th' Germans coordinated this attack throughout the whole city. Every Nazi stronghold in Paris is on th' move, led by a squad of Panzers. They're comin' right for us."

Steve was speechless. How could they not have seen this coming? What were they going to do now?

"They got us good, Steve," was all Jack could say, his gaze sinking down to the floor.

The French Resistance had been outgunned since the beginning. The Nazis had always possessed more firepower and better training than the Parisian citizens who opposed them, so the Resistance had focused on overwhelming the enemy with sheer numbers. That strategy had worked fine so far, but that was all over now.

The Nazis had broken their truce and had hit the Resistance with a surprise attack, coordinating a massive offensive using nearly all of their remaining forces and spearheaded by multiple squads of Panzer tanks, which they must have been stockpiling and saving throughout the war for just such an occasion. Against a trained and well supplied unit of Allied forces, this wouldn't have been quite such a dire threat, but the Paris Resistance lacked the proper equipment and firepower to effectively stop the Panzers.

Steve had been counting on a large, united front of Resistance troops to eventually put a stop to the small group of tanks that had attacked his position, but against this sudden, overwhelming wave of opposition, all the Resistance could do was wait to be crushed as the Panzers rolled over them on their way to victory. General von Choltitz had always said that he would rather burn Paris to the ground than lose it to the Allied forces, and now he was in a perfect position to do just that.

Steve turned to Fury, a fire burning in his eyes, "Jack, gather the Howlers and get 'em mobilized. I want..."

Fury just shook his head as he faced the ground, "It's over, Steve. We lost. All we can do right now is evacuate as many people as we can. There's no way..."

Steve felt a passionate anger sear through his body as he roughly jerked Fury off his knees, "There's _always _a way, Fury!" he shouted, shaking his friend in his ferocity. "We need to buy as much time as we can for the Resistance to retreat and regroup, understand? We pick off the Panzers one by one and delay them as much as possible! I didn't come this far only to get mowed down by a bunch of Krauts just when victory was in sight, and neither did you! Now get your sorry rear up and get moving or by God I'll make sure the Nazis are the least of your worries!"

That seemed to snap Fury out of his daze, "Okay Commandos, Captain America says we got a job to do, so let's not disappoint him! Now grab yer gear and lets go!"

Seconds later the roof was deserted as Captain America and the Howling Commandos made war throughout the streets of Paris outnumbered, outgunned, and all the while knowing that they were fighting a losing battle.

Eight hours later found Captain America standing resolutely in front of the Resistance headquarters, the Grand Palais, grimly waiting for the inevitable. The Palais itself was an enormous, magnificent structure, which had stood there for decades and had been used before the war as a museum which knew no equal. Wide columns and grand windows defined its exterior while great statues had dotted the grounds. Now however, these same statues and columns had all but been ground to dust, and the once proud visage of the palace had fallen into ruin. The Resistance may have called it home once, but now it had been transformed into nothing but a dismal coffin used to house the dead that had been piled inside, and soon, it would be reduced to even less than that.

Captain America wiped away a drop of blood that had trickled down into his eye. Ignoring the many wounds and injuries he had accumulated during the day's fierce fighting, he tried to concentrate instead on the coming conflict, and not the failure which had marked the day's battle so far.

The Resistance was on its last legs. Despite their best efforts and cunning strategies, they just simply didn't have the firepower to make any kind of stand against the onslaught of the Panzer tanks and their support. Captain America and the Howlers had thrown everything they had against the Nazi offensive lines, but even they had failed to deter the Germans enough to save most of the French forces.

At one point Steve had managed to take a tank down single-handedly, by first sneaking behind the unit and dispatching the column of supporting stormtroopers. Then he had climbed on the Panzer and used his shield to pry open the access hatch. After that, engaging the three men inside and disabling the tank had been easy...until he had come under fire from the remaining two Panzers and nearly died in the process. So unless he counted the non lethal but incredibly painful bullet wounds he'd suffered, he considered the experience a victory...although it was clearly too dangerous to try a second time.

Jack Fury and his men had succeeded in destroying a second Panzer by raiding most of the Resistance's supply of mines and carpeting one of Paris' major streets with them, concealing them under a layer of light debris. When a squad of tanks had rolled over them, the ensuing explosions had totally destroyed one, and nearly crippled another. Of course, with the extremely limited supply of explosives the Resistance boasted, that was the last time the Howlers could attempt that strategy.

Later that day, pooling their manpower and strength, Captain America and the Howlers collapsed a damaged building on top of a passing squad of tanks, which succeeded in destroying the lead Panzer, but proved ultimately ineffective against the remaining pair. It had been a depressing sight watching the squad slowly back up only to continue on their way through an alternate route, knowing that at best they had merely managed to delay the enemy for another few minutes.

Altogether the Resistance had only succeeded in destroying about a third of the Nazi forces, and barely managed to make any kind of coordinated retreat as they were mowed down across the width and breadth of the city. The Germans obliterated any pockets of opposition they encountered, and left nothing but smoldering ruins behind. By evening, the city had been reduced to a smoking pile of debris as the Nazis had slowly advanced across Paris, routing the French soldiers along the way as they inevitably approached the Grand Palais, the Resistance's headquarters, and their final objective.

Steve knew that if the Palace was destroyed, it would mean the end of the FFI. The early days of the battle had swung in the Resistance's favor, but they had still been costly. This new German advance had already crippled any chance the Resistance had of putting an end to the Nazi occupation by themselves. Already they had lost over a thousand soldiers that day alone, their bodies littering the streets of the city and painting it red with their blood. The Palace had been their rallying point and symbol of whatever hope they had left, and also served as their ammunition and supply depot, and if it was destroyed they would lose their last chance of opposing the Germans and the Nazis would have free reign to destroy the entire city, decimating what remained of the civilian population until the Allied reinforcements arrived...if they ever made it at all.

But Steve refused to let that happen. He had rallied what he could of the Resistance survivors in front of the Grand Palais and barricaded the doors as well as the street in front of it. Peggy Carter, Jack Fury, and the Howling Commandos were stationed up on the roof, in order to provide backup to the small but dedicated group of soldiers below. Weary and wounded though they may be, Steve was determined that if this was to be their last stand, they would make the Germans pay for every inch of ground they took. He would be damned if he was going to just hand the city over to the Nazis after the sacrifices of all the men and women who had died defending it.

As the sound of battle grew closer and closer, Steve turned and looked to the Palace roof. Barely visible against the gathering dusk, Jack and Peggy nodded to their friend, assuring him that they were ready. As the city around him faded in the deepening gloom, lit only by the scattered flames which illuminated the streets amidst dancing shadows and the macabre corpses which still haunted the alleys, Steve reflected that this was not the first time he had faced impossible odds; and right there he made a promise to himself that at the very least, he would make sure that Paris was still standing at sunrise. With whatever failing power Steve still had at his disposal, he could at least ensure that much.

Captain America's attention was suddenly caught by almost half a dozen French soldiers rounding the corner of the street ahead, running as fast as they possibly could in a desperate, panicked effort to reach the hollow safety of the Grand Palais. An explosion rocked the ground as a massive shell slammed into a building just behind the small group as screams of fear and pain reverberated through the evening air.

And then the sight that they had all dreaded slowly rolled into view...six Panzer tanks, accompanied by several dozen Nazi stormtroopers, rounded the corner just as the Resistance survivors dashed behind the FFI lines, still screaming in terror. Behind them, the tanks ponderously made their way down the street, waiting to fire until their new targets were within range.

Cap wordlessly raised his hand into the air, indicating that the men under his command were to wait until the order was given to spring into action. He was trying to calm their nerves, but he knew he wasn't kidding anyone. Everyone present was aware of the situation, and what was going to happen next. As far as the Frenchmen were concerned, they had resigned themselves to the fact that they were beaten, that none of them were getting out alive, that they were all dead men. But they were still French, and they would be damned if they surrendered now. They weren't giving up their city without a fight, even if that fight claimed their very lives.

By now the tanks were almost in range. Steve trembled with anticipation as he fought back the fear and impatience which threatened to overwhelm him. He knew what the dire consequences of his next order would be, but his men would have attempted it with or without his assistance. At least with his help there might be some survivors. The Resistance forces felt that they had no choice in the matter... and in all honestly, they probably didn't. If this was to be their last stand, the least they could do was to make it a memorable one.

As the Panzers leveled their cannons at the Grand Palais, the last bastion of freedom for the people of Paris, Captain America raised his triangular shield as high as he could, light glinting off its surface, as a mighty roar echoed from his lips, "Charge!"

Gunshots ripped through the air as the survivors of the French Forces of the Interior dashed towards the German lines. The world around him seemed to fade away as Steve reflected upon what a desperate strategy they had employed. To the casual observer, charging a group of tanks might appear to be suicide, but in reality, the Panzers lacked any sort of short range weaponry, which is why they required a troop escort during their missions. Unfortunately, while the point blank fighting which the Resistance had chosen allowed them to escape instant death by tank cannons, it still exposed them to the aforementioned Nazi troop escort, and since the French were now themselves outnumbered and fatigued, at best they had only delayed their own doom. But when Steve had reluctantly suggested this strategy earlier that afternoon, pointing out that they would at least take more Nazis with them this way, he had met with unanimous approval from his allies. And that was how he found himself leaping behind German lines, the success of their fatalistic charge bought with the expert cover fire of the Howling Commandos who were still perched atop the Palace, slamming his shield into the first wave of enemy combatants.

The next few minutes were a nightmare of blood, shouting, pain, and death. Captain America fought with a ferocity that had completely overwhelmed him, as he leveled whole groups of soldiers with lightning speed. He set upon his foes like a force of nature, destroying all in his path. Over the last few months he had become so accustomed to the horrors of war, to the way his body moved and flowed as he waged battle after battle, that he was now able to tune out the shrieks of fear and the piles of blood-slicked corpses, to the point that he had finally become what Project Rebirth had always meant for him to be...the perfect warrior. All the horrors, all the sacrifices and heartache and endless pain and fear, had all served as the fire to forge the soldier he had become. He only hoped, as he mindlessly dealt out the death that he strove to save his friends from, that it had all been worth the cost he had paid.

No longer could he look in the mirror and recognize the face that stared back at him. No longer could he see the bright eyed hopefulness of the innocent boy who just wanted to leave the world a better place than he had found it. The naive kid who had prayed to one day leave the dingy streets he had called home had been buried deep under the weight of the compromises, tragedies, and suffering that the war had heaped upon the soul of Steve Rogers. And now here he was, in the ruined streets of Paris, savagely striking down those who would seek to destroy the lives of anyone they deemed inferior to their race. Steve was doing what he'd always dreamed of, serving his country, he just never imagined the terrible cost he would have to pay.

And suddenly Steve had run out of bodies to strike. Panting heavily, bent over in exhaustion, Captain America looked around at the scene he had created. He was surrounded by dozens of dead Germans, their crushed and crimson corpses encircling him in a grotesque landscape of the dead. A wave of nausea enveloped Steve as he gazed, paralyzed with revulsion, at his own blood soaked hands. His shield dripped crimson as he gagged, fighting back the vomit that rose from his heaving stomach, consumed with the knowledge that the men he had just killed hadn't died in a fight, they had died in a slaughter.

"Who am I?" he asked himself over and over in his head as he vomited right there in the street. "Whoever I am now, it certainly isn't Steve Rogers..."

And as he rose from his crouching position, wiping the soiled dribble from his chin, the sounds and visions of war were upon him once again. Turning to the noise of maddened shrieking coming from behind him, he saw that the battle was nearly over.

The situation could not have been worse, Steve realized, once more readying his shield for action despite the blood still dripping from it. The Resistance had been forced back to the front of the tanks, which were just repositioning themselves to fire on the Palace. The Howlers were trying to buy the ragged remains of the French militia enough time to retreat to the shadowy confines of the city, but the soldiers wouldn't have it. They were determined to die fighting.

Steve knew that if he was to act, it would have to be now. This was the moment he had been waiting for, the moment where he could make a difference, and maybe, if he was lucky, even save some lives.

Running as hard as he could, pushing his superhuman strength and endurance to the limit, Steve darted back to the front lines. He could see the tank cannons lowering, and knowing that he had less than an instant to spare, Steve forced himself to run faster than he ever had before.

With an animalistic grunt, Steve raised his shield to cover himself, and leaped directly in front of the nearest cannon just as the deafening thunder of fire exploded from the barrel. Time seemed to slow down around him as Captain America felt the impact of the cannon shell against his shield. Sound seemed muted and his vision blurred as his brain failed to process the pain and the speed with which he was blown away from the tank. The enormous cannon shell which would have blown away the last of the FFI soldiers had been deflected, and was now spiraling away across the courtyard, while Steve's battered body was propelled through the air in the opposite direction. The rest of the fight melted away as for one moment of surreal terror, Cap soared high across the courtyard, incapable of comprehending how much agony he was in or how close to death he was, before he smashed through the side of a building, the rest of the wall collapsing down around him.

It only took about a minute for Steve to regain consciousness, but it might as well have been an eternity. Laying amidst the wreckage of the collapsed brick wall, staring with unseeing, blurry eyes up at the ceiling, he felt like he was drowning under water. The world around him was leaning at a crazy angle and his ears were ringing. Things weren't where they were supposed to be and sounds appeared filtered and unusually far away.

Steve eventually tried to stand, but he found that he was too dizzy to even sit up straight. His body had been pummeled into an almost unrecognizable lump of flesh, bone, and blood, and the best he could manage was to slump against the debris which still half covered him and watch the end of the battle uselessly, unable to help as his friends were mowed down before his very eyes.

He watched as the last of the freedom fighters were killed, their limp bodies falling to the cobblestone pavement beneath him. He looked on as the German troopers retreated to safety behind the tanks as the Panzers raised their cannons towards the Grand Palais. He saw Peggy Carter, Jack Fury, and the Howling Commandos firing at the armored transports with renewed vigor, their hatred and anger burning in their eyes in an attempt to drown the impossible fear which was clutching their hearts. And he watched, a silent scream caught in his throat, as the tanks fired on the Palace with a thunder that seemed to drown the world.

The Grand Palais, the headquarters of the Resistance, the last bastion of freedom for the people of Paras, collapsed under Panzer fire. Smoke billowed forth from the grounds as the beams and walls fell, the ceiling gave way, and billows of fire erupted from within the windows. Glass shattered and sprayed forth upon the surrounding streets like rain as the tanks fired again and again, smashing the once proud building to smoldering pieces. The screams of the Commandos were utterly swallowed by the shrieking death throes of the Palace as all Steve could do was stare in horror as his whole world seemed to collapse in ruins around him.

The Panzers were still firing as Steve felt his head begin to loll to the side and his vision began swimming again. He could feel his hope fading away, like a candle whose flame was just beginning to sputter out of existence, as his eyes grew darker and darker until he was claimed by nothingness.


	30. Chapter 30

The Age of Marvels: Chapter Thirty

Captain America

and the

Invaders

Part Thirty

_**During the darkest days of World War II, America stood united against the threat of the Nazi Germany war machine. Our Greatest Generation sacrificed everything in order to stem the forces of oppression from overrunning our very planet, led under the fearless banner of the greatest hero of our time, Captain America. Inspired by his courageous example, and with the aid of his misfit band of Invaders, Captain America led the forces of freedom to victory, changing his world forever.**_

New Jersey

The home of Mr. Barnes

Despite the fact that he had already drank not one, but two cups of coffee, Colonel Fury admitted that he just couldn't keep his eyes open, and that's how he found himself during the hour before dawn in the kitchen brewing yet another cup of the stuff. Imagine his surprise when he heard the flush of a toilet coming from the upstairs bathroom and the soft patter of tiny feet scampering down the stairs.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Fury stifled a yawn and turned to address the small child who was standing, completely unafraid, in the kitchen doorway, "Hey kid, shouldn't you be in bed?"

The child had short brown hair, large inquisitive eyes, and was wearing a light blue onesie while clutching his teddy bear tightly in his small arms, "I hadda use the baffroom," answered the child in his small voice, clearly not intimidated by the Colonel's usually off-putting presence. "Yer Grampa's fwiend, right?"

"Uh-huh," Fury answered in a curt, almost rude tone.

Apparently this subtlety was lost on the child, "What happened to your eye, mistuh? Did it get lost?"

"Musta left it in my other eyepatch..." Fury muttered to himself, reminded of just how much he disliked kids.

Silence fell over the kitchen as Fury did his best to ignore the visitor, while the child cocked his head to the side and continued to examine his new friend, not unlike a curious cat would eye a bug that he was considering whether or not to eat.

"Momma said I shouldn't dwink coffee," said the child at last, causing the Colonel to cringe with irritation. "She says it's got too much caffienimation, an' I won't be able to sleep."

Fury gritted his teeth, aggravated, "That's okay, kid. You could just use the extra time to brush up on yer vocabulary."

Once again the child ignored Fury, "You wanna know how old I am? This many!" he said, proudly thrusting up two fistfuls of random fingers which he then proceeded to change enthusiastically.

"Yer not exactly the class valedictorian, are ya kid?" asked Fury, sarcastically.

"Nope!" the child exclaimed with a wide smile. "Anyway, I gots to go to bed now. Mamma says if I don't get my beauty rest I gets real cwabby."

Fury grunted in response as he turned his attention back to the coffee. If there was one thing he hated, it was kids. The little runts ran around like wild animals, making all kinds of noise and leaving a mess where ever they went. Living with kids was like living with a tornado that struck every five minutes and left a trail of destruction in its wake. Why, Fury would rather face a whole platoon of hostiles than have to spend a day with a kid.

As the Colonel was ruminating over those thoughts, he heard a familiar young voice behind him, "Mistuh...is Grampa sad?"

Fury slowly turned around, trying hard to mask the concern on his face, "What makes you say that, squirt?"

"Well, he's been really quiet lately, an' he doesn't play with me like he used to," said the child, thoughtfully. "Momma says he's just tired, but he looks sad to me... Is he gonna be okay?"

Fury forced himself to bend down and give the child what he hoped was a reassuring pat on the head, "Don't worry, kid. Yer Grampa's just sleepy. When ya get old you need a lot of rest an' relaxation. If you think he looks sad, that means it's your job to cheer him up a little. Can you do that?"

The child nodded his head vigorously.

"Good. Now get ta bed," Fury replied, the hint of a growl still in his voice.

"Can you give this to Grampa?" asked the child, handing Fury the teddy bear. "Maybe it'll make him happy when I'm not around."

With that, the child turned and ran back up the stairs to his room. Fury heard the door slam behind him as he looked down at the slightly worn out brown teddy bear in his hands.

As he walked back into the living room, grasping the hot cup of coffee tightly in his morning chilled fingers, he placed the bear snugly in the arms of old man Barnes, who was still snoring away with a deafening roar in his chair. Making himself comfortable on the couch, next to Captain America's old war letters, Fury couldn't help but think as he watched Barnes sleeping with the kid's teddy bear, that perhaps children weren't so bad after all.

_August 22, 1944_

_ Dear James,_

_ We lost. For all intents and purposes, the French Resistance is dead. Just when we thought victory to be within our reach, the Germans surprised us with a sneak attack spearheaded by a large convoy of Panzer tanks. Lacking the proper artillery capable of stopping these behemoths, the French Forces of the Interior were steamrolled by the overwhelming Nazi opposition, despite the best efforts of myself and the Howling Commandos._

_ Eventually we were pushed back all the way to our headquarters, the Grand Palais, where we desperately tried to rally what troops we had left for our last stand against the Nazis. It was a massacre. During the ensuing fight I was wounded, and could do nothing but sit by helplessly while I watched the Palais burn and the men under my command die. The last thing I remember was all the fire and screams and blood._

_ I woke this afternoon with Peggy by my side. She and a scant handful of survivors had managed to escape, and rescuing whoever they could, have taken shelter in the basement of a deserted ruin of a mansion near the outskirts of the city._

_ The attitudes of the men could not be more bleak, and I find that I cannot blame them. Their comrades, who they have spent years fighting beside, have been slaughtered. Their war, which they have so desperately fought until now, has been lost. Their headquarters has been destroyed, and we can only assume that Commander Tanguy has been killed as well. The Germans run rampant throughout the city, obliterating all in their path, completely unopposed._

_ It's all too much. I have failed...for the first time in my life, I have utterly failed. The deaths of those men are carved into my conscience. It was my plan that they were following, and my shortsightedness that led us down this road. How am I to live with myself, knowing the unspeakable cost of my failure? _

_ All I know is that for now I must act strong. Peggy, Jack, and the remains of the Howling Commandos and FFI still look to me for guidance...though I doubt that it will do them much good. How can they believe in me when I no longer believe in myself? For the first time since I was a child I cannot help but question my convictions, for how can morals and ethics stand in the face of such overwhelming atrocity and horror? _

_ I thought I knew what being a soldier meant. I was wrong._

_ Anyway, now isn't the time to be wallowing in self pity. I heard that 'Dum Dum' Dugan didn't survive the battle, and Jack's taking it pretty hard. I may not have much faith in myself anymore, but it's still my responsibility to make sure my friend is okay._

_ I'll write again later, James._

Jack Fury had seen better days. His uniform hung from him in blood-stained tatters, his skin was scorched, blackened, and torn from the rigors of battle, and perhaps worst of all, he hadn't moved from his seat in several long hours.

The soldier had stubbornly entrenched himself in the remnants of the mansion's kitchen, and had so far refused to move, or even talk, to anyone. Instead he remained in his worn wooden chair, hunched over a small table, downing glass after glass of some unidentified alcoholic beverage he had discovered in the basement. Fortunately for him, he found the number of his concerned visitors decreased dramatically the more inebriated he became, and he was sure that the distinct odor he could now clearly smell on his breath didn't hurt either.

He was just about to pour himself yet another glass when he heard a familiar voice behind him, "Mind if I join you, Jack? You're not gonna chase me away too, are you?"

Fury simply sat there as Steve Rogers took a seat next to him, grunting with the exertion of moving what with his busted ribs and heavily bandaged legs, "Have you (oof) got any of that to spare?" he asked, nodding to the bottle.

"Spare?" Jack asked, sitting back and motioning around him. "I've got enough here to keep the whole damn Resistance drunk fer a month!"

Steve leaned over with a questioning eyebrow raised, noticing that the floor around Jack's chair was littered with over a dozen filled wine bottles. As Jack uncorked a new one and poured Steve a glass, he also took note of the five or six empty bottles strewn about the table that Fury had already consumed. This man knew how to hold his brew.

"Uh...Jack," Steve mentioned, taking a hold of his glass. "According to the labels on these bottles, this wine is over a hundred years old. Are you sure you should be guzzling it down like that?"

But Jack didn't have time to respond, as he had now dispensed with the glasses altogether and was now pouring the wine down his throat straight from the bottle. Steve's eyes widened with shock as he saw Jack gulp down the entire contents of the enormous bottle in one obscenely long drag, wiping his dripping mouth off with his sleeve and tossing the now empty bottle haphazardly to the floor.

"Don' even worry about it, Shteve," he said with a little burp. "After th' first three or four bottles, it tastes jus' like rubbing alcohol."

Steve gave his glass a wary look as he gingerly scooted it farther away across the table.

Steve's voice adopted a serious tone, "Jack, I heard about Dugan."

Jack's eyes dropped back down to the table, "...I don't wanna talk about that."

"I know what you must be feeling..."

"Do you? Do you really?" Jack shouted, leaping up from the table, his voice rising in rage, clenching a bottle in his fist. "I was there when we set up that position, covering you from the roof of the Palace! I was there when the Nazis were closing in and bullets started flying through the air! I was there when our people started droppin' left an' right! I was there when the tanks opened fire and it all went to hell around us!"

"I'm sorry, Jack. I didn't mean to..."

"I-I saw him fall," Jack continued, his voice cracking with emotion as tears began to well in his eyes. "When the building exploded and the roof collapsed under us, the last thing I saw was Dugan."

The room around them was now utterly silent, except for the sounds of one broken man.

"He was screamin'," Fury continued, his rough voice a quiet shadow of what it once was. "I mean...I guess we were all screaming, but...that's no way to die. That's not what Dugan deserved. Screaming, in pain, terrified..."Jack couldn't go on as his voice caught in his throat; Steve put his hand on Jack's shoulder as he collapsed into a sobbing heap in his chair, the bottle laying forgotten on the floor.

As he comforted his friend, Steve felt ashamed of the small part of him that was still shocked by seeing a grown man cry, especially Jack Fury. Jack was a man that Steve admired very much, someone for whom he had grown to depend on to remind Captain America of what was important, something of a model for him to aspire to and measure himself against. Despite the fact that Steve had witnessed horrors and trials that would have left many other men in shambles, it was still a surprise to see Jack Fury so shattered.

"I've lost a lot of men in this war, seen a lot of good soldiers die on th' battlefield," Jack said, pulling himself together enough to speak. "I always knew my time would come, but it never occurred to me that Dugan's time might come sooner. It's just...wrong."

Jack shook his head, his face so much older than Steve had ever seen, "I don't know what to do without him. He's been with me since the beginning. We went to boot camp together, formed the Howlers together, marched off to war together. He was my best friend."

"I have a best friend, too," Steve said, his thoughts dwelling on James. "He was wounded at Normandy. I don't know what I'd do if I ever lost him."

"Dugan had a sweetheart back home, ya know," said Jack, a faraway look in his eyes. "A gentle, funny girl named Angie. She was sort of a big gal, but she was one of a kind, that's fer sure. I've never seen a girl with th' upper body strength to lift Dugan clear off the ground like she could."

Steve couldn't help but be impressed, "Yeah?"

Jack chuckled and nodded, wiping away some of his tears, "I can't tell you how many times I tried to get Dugan to shave off that stupid handlebar mustache of his, but it was always 'Angie likes it, she says it tickles'. He'd have none of it."

For a moment Steve and Jack had almost forgotten their pain as they laughed together in the bombed out shelter of the ruined kitchen. Steve could still see Dugan in his mind's eye, laughing away at some stupid joke with that ridiculous red mustache on his face.

But Jack wasn't laughing for long, "...All he wanted to do was go back home and propose to that girl," he said, the light vanishing from his eyes. "It was all he ever talked about. Now I guess that's something else that'll never happen."

Steve couldn't bear to see his friend in such a state. Bending down, he picked up another bottle of wine, uncorked it, and began filling two more glasses, "Jack, I'm sorry that you lost your friend, but he's in a better place now, and he wouldn't want to see you acting like this, not when there's still a war on."

Jack grew silent as he listened to Steve's words.

"What's important to remember is the impact Dugan had on his loved ones," Steve continued. "You and Angie, it's up to you now to carry on for him. He was there for you when you needed him, so the least you can do is honor his memory and pull yourself together. He put his faith in you, and now it's up to you to earn it."

Jack's eyes rose to meet Steve's for the first time.

"Take as much time as you need to mourn your friend, but remember, there are still people here who are counting on you," Steve said, placing his hand on Jack's shoulder. "You still have the power to make sure that he didn't die in vain."

Jack nodded, blinking away the last of his tears and choking back the pain in his voice, "To Timothy 'Dum Dum' Dugan...one hell of a man," he said, lifting his glass.

"To Dum Dum."

Steve opened the door to his room to find Peggy already there, "How's Jack?" she asked in a soft voice.

"He'll be okay, I think," Steve answered, sighing as he sank down on his thin, tattered bed. "He's strong. He just needs some time."

"And how are you doing?" she continued, sitting down next to him and draping her arm over his shoulders sympathetically.

Normally a show of affection like that from Peggy would have made Steve feel embarrassed and a little uncomfortable, unsure as he was how to proceed with his feelings towards her, but now he was so exhausted, shell shocked, and emotionally crippled that the soft tone in her voice and her caring touch went mostly unnoticed.

"I don't know," Steve answered, letting himself feel vulnerable for the first time since the battle. "I just...how could all this have happened, Peggy? Where did I go wrong?"

Peggy couldn't stop herself from giving Steve a hug, feeling the closeness of his body, "It's not your fault, Steve," she said, her hand rubbing his back. "You may be a super soldier, but you're still human. You can't do everything, you know. You're just one man."

"I just can't stop thinking...that it's all my fault!" Steve exclaimed, his voice wavering as his emotions finally broke free, washing over him in an uncontrollable wave. "Those men put their trust in me, and I led them all to their deaths! Now the Resistance is crushed, the city is being destroyed, and it's all because of me! It's because I failed them!"

Steve's anguished voice rose in a crescendo to a tortured wail that echoed inside the small, splintered room. Peggy bit her lip, trying to keep herself from crying as well, as the man who she had grown to so love and admire collapsed into a weeping ball in her arms.

She wished, as she ran her hands through his unkempt hair, that she could think of something, anything, to say to him. But he was right about one thing, he had been the one to take point during their last stand. He had born the responsibility of leadership in that final hour, and she couldn't help thinking that she was glad it had been him and not her, because she didn't know how she would have dealt with all the guilt and self hatred that went along with that decision.

As her weeping mingled with his own, it struck her for the first time how uncharacteristically she was acting. She was a strong, independent woman, who was more competent than most of the men fighting out there. What was she doing coddling this man who often infuriated her so much?

But then she thought of the lives that had been lost, of the overwhelming amount of blood and horror and death she had fled through only a few hours ago...and how much they had all, together, lost, and the excuses and lies she had fed herself about how different she and Steve were, and how much she hated herself for believing them. Now all those lies were suddenly exposed for the foolish, weak excuses that they were, and suddenly Peggy found that she could not hold onto Steve tightly enough. She could not be close enough to him as they held each other, drying their tears in each other's arms, sharing the most hidden, intimate, vulnerable sides of their hearts with each other as the sun slowly began to set around them, casting its long shadows over their sobbing, trembling forms.

The next morning saw Captain America crouching in the blown out second story window of an abandoned building overlooking a contingent of Nazi soldiers. Trying to keep a low profile, the super soldier kept his triangular shield slung over his back so as not to reflect the rays of the rising sun coming up over the smoking city. What was left of his ripped, blood soaked uniform was held together by bandages and tightly wrapped cloth, the only real protection it continued to offer him was the dented helmet he still wore upon his head. As far as he could tell, the enemy below had no idea he was there, and that's the way he liked it.

Steve had awoken late last night having fallen asleep on the creaky bed, still wrapped in Peggy's arms. Too emotionally exhausted to register the intimate position he was in, he had simply continued laying there for a while, enjoying the heat of her body as he stared listlessly at the ceiling.

After a while (Steve had no idea how long) he had been roused by panicked shouting coming from the entrance to their hideout. As he answered the door, he wasn't sure the wounded man outside even recognized him as Captain America in his wild, confused, and alarmed state, but it didn't matter. Apparently the Parisian had gotten wind of the remnants of the Resistance taking shelter there, and was desperately pleading for their help. His family and a large group of refugees had banded together and hidden from the Nazis who were destroying the city, but they had found that the German forces had accidentally surrounded them, but remained ignorant of their presence. It was only a matter of time before the Germans found their hiding place and killed them all. The crazed man at Steve's doorstep had volunteered to go looking for help, and was now begging the Resistance for aid.

Steve wasted no time assuring the man that help was on the way. Without bothering to wake anyone else, he gathered his shield and any supplies he would need as quietly as possible, and was ready to depart. The Germans had control of the city, and there wasn't anything their pitifully small band of soldiers could do about it anymore. Steve was determined that no one else should die following his leadership, so if he was going to embark on what was certain to be a suicide mission, he would do it alone. He wasn't going to drag any more soldiers with him to their deaths.

But as soon as he stepped outside he was surprised to see Peggy, Jack, and the surviving Howling Commandos and FFI soldiers already waiting for him, ammunition and weapons loaded in the gloom of the predawn light. Steve was about to protest when Peggy walked up to him and put her finger on his lips, instantly silencing him. She explained that Steve hadn't twisted anyone's arm the other day when he had led them during their last stand. Everyone had agreed that if they were going down, they wanted to take as many Nazis with them as they could. Those men had died fighting, just like they would have wanted, and Steve had nothing to be ashamed of for not dying alongside them.

Now they had a chance to save innocent people from the nightmare that had consumed their city, and just like before, these soldiers were choosing of their own free will to do what they could to help, and their odds of surviving would be a lot better as long as Captain America stood beside them.

Steve's eyes traveled over the worn faces of the men assembled before him. Each and every one appeared old and wrinkled, ancient before their time by the heartache and loss of war. Every man knew what was at stake. Every man knew that they likely wouldn't be returning from this mission. They were all aware of the risks, and if they were to die that day, saving those civilians, than so be it.

And in that moment, Steve knew that Peggy was right. Soldiers had indeed died under his command, but that didn't mean that he was at fault for surviving. They were at war, a war in which the odds were outrageously set against them, and if he was going to make a difference in that war, if he wanted to keep as many of his men alive as possible, then he had to be willing to shoulder the responsibility of leadership, to accept that heavy burden which only he could bear. He had to find the strength to accept the consequences of this war, so that no one else would have to.

Steve sighed, feeling his heavy shield weigh down on him. He felt his resolve returning, his self assurance and confidence helping to make every step he took a little easier, a little stronger...but he also felt a renewed sense of burden with the knowledge that he must take responsibility for every life that he led into battle. For every man who perished under his leadership, his heart would grow a little heavier and his sense of responsibility would weigh all the more. But that was where his life had led him. That was part of the burden that went along with being Captain America, and if that was what it meant to fight the Nazis, then he was willing to pay that price.

Now Steve Rogers huddled in the window, keeping an eye on the Nazis which would intercept the band of helpless civilians who were cowering only a block away, as he waited for the signal from his remaining forces which were getting into their positions.

The plan was simple, but still risky. Steve, along with Jack and Peggy, who were hiding behind him, were to ambush the German troops who were escorting a Panzer tank through the city. Their objective was to distract the enemy long enough for their main force (which was still depressingly small) to sneak into the building in which the civilians were hiding and evacuate them. Then, if anyone was still alive, they would retreat into the back alleys of Paris to fight another day.

Steve wasn't overly fond of guerrilla tactics, and was only too aware that strategies such as those offered them merely a delay of execution at best, but knew that right now they had no other options. He could only pray that, as hopelessly outnumbered and outgunned as they were, a few soldiers might survive this mission to let someone know of their struggle in the future.

"We aren't dying for nothing," Steve reminded himself, catching sight of the men's signal in the distance. "We will be remembered."

Captain America motioned to Peggy and Jack, who clutched their weapons tightly in their sweaty fingers. As quietly as he could, Steve unslung his shield and brought it to bear. With a grim look in his eyes, he whispered a short prayer as he focused on the enemy. With cover fire from Jack and Peggy, they should be able to take out almost half of the enemy forces before the Panzer got them in its sights, at which point everything would fall apart. Hopefully most of the civilians would be evacuated by then. If they were very very lucky, many of the Resistance's men would even survive long enough to get away from the battle. Cap would do all he could to cover their retreat; but sadly, after that they would be on their own, because he knew that this time he would not be able to follow his friends. The only way this plan would work against such insurmountable odds was if someone died to ensure its success...and that was a good leader's job, after all.

Steve could feel nervous sweat dripping from his brow as he tensed his muscles in preparation for his leap out the window. The Germans would never see him coming, of that he was certain, but he also knew that this would be the last battle he would ever fight. He would not be walking away from this one. He had come to Paris to save lives...and he was about to sacrifice his own to achieve that goal.

An unbidden memory of James suddenly surfaced in Steve's mind. It was a sunny day back in New York, a place that seemed so far away now. James was smiling, telling his friend some lame joke and calling him a scabber as they walked down the crowded street together. Steve could almost smell the familiar scents of his city, his home, as the memory faded back into the recesses of his mind. Finally, the super soldier said a silent farewell to his best friend, and then, gripping the windowsill resolutely, Steve crouched down and...

...was blown away as a massive fireball engulfed the street below. The explosion ripped the Panzer apart in an instant, sending shrapnel and flames tearing through the German ranks as their shocked screams were drowned out amidst the incoming fire which struck them down.

Steve shouted in alarm, dodging back through the window and raising his shield reflexively to protect his friends. Two more explosions rocketed through the street below, decimating the enemy and collapsing a building across from the Nazis who were now in full retreat.

"What is going on?" Steve wondered, his mind racing to comprehend the chaos around them. "The Resistance has been all but destroyed. Who could possibly have the firepower to repel the Germans like that?"

And then, loud enough that he could hear it clearly over the flames, Steve heard cheering coming from outside, and he knew before he had even made it back to the window who had come to their rescue. Joined by Jack and Peggy, the three friends beheld a sight that they could scarcely believe. Marching over the wreckage and bodies strewn across the street was a full company of soldiers who were escorting a contingent of tanks...all decorated in the colors of the Free French Forces.

Steve couldn't believe his eyes. The Allied reinforcements had finally arrived.

As Jack and Peggy bounced in excitement behind him, hugging and laughing like schoolchildren, Steve could not help but let a tear escape his eye. The battle was not yet over, but for now at least, they were safe. During all the horror and death that had overwhelmed them in the last few days, Steve had almost forgotten about his original mission. They were never supposed to defeat the occupying German force all alone, they had only been meant to safeguard the city as best they could against the vengeful Nazis who meant to destroy it and its people rather than see them be liberated. Though it had not been easy, their job was done now, and it would be up to the Allied army to finally take Paris back.

"I don't believe it! They're here! They're finally here!" Jack and Peggy screamed at the top of their lungs, laughing in their joy.

Steve sighed in quiet relief, staring down at the endless columns of soldiers who were now marching into the city, "The Fourth US Infantry Division and the French Second Armored Division. That should be enough to take Paris back and then some," he said, a smile spreading across his face. "The French people were rightfully angry when their military were exiled to Britain during the occupation, but the Free French forces never gave up on their home. They're here to take back Paris, and the Germans won't stand a chance against their superior numbers and equipment."

But Jack and Peggy were much too elated to hear a word he was saying. And when Peggy whirled Steve around and surprised him with a spontaneous, passionate kiss, all the fighting and dying seemed to melt away as his heart was overwhelmed with the joy that his friends felt.

They were alive, and there was no greater happiness than that.


	31. Chapter 31

The Age of Marvels:

Chapter Thirty One

Captain America

and the

Invaders

Chapter Thirty One

_**During the darkest days of World War II, America stood united against the threat of the Nazi Germany war machine. Our Greatest Generation sacrificed everything in order to stem the forces of oppression from overrunning our very planet, led under the fearless banner of the greatest hero of our time, Captain America. Inspired by his courageous example, and with the aid of his misfit band of Invaders, Captain America led the forces of freedom to victory, changing his world forever.**_

New Jersey

The home of Mr. Barnes

Colonel Fury once again caught his eye slowly sliding shut as he finished yet another of Steve Rogers' letters, but found himself saved by an unexpected comment from Mr. Barnes, still asleep in his chair.

"Mumble grumble...Get off my lawn, ya darn kids...grumble mumble..."

Fury couldn't help but smile. Despite his considerable age, Barnes was still a charismatic old man who had a good deal of spunk left in him. The already wizened Colonel could only hope that he'd have as much vitality when he got to be as old as his new friend. A frown crossed his face as he realized that some of his men already considered him fairly aged already.

But it wasn't his years that had weighed him down, Fury continued thinking as he took another drink of coffee and picked the journal back up again, it was the scope of his experiences. Like many soldiers, Fury had accepted the burden of growing old before his time. When he'd marched off to serve his country, he had been an idealistic young man, but when he'd returned only a few years later, he had discovered that he had grown far older than his civilian friends had during the time he was away. He could no longer relate to them. He felt that their problems and concerns were too juvenile for him, and so he had been forced to distance himself. In fact the farther his career advanced, the more people he had felt compelled to alienate, until there was almost no one left.

His gaze falling back onto the old man, still asleep in his chair, Fury wondered if Barnes had felt the same when he'd come home from the war. How many men could he truly call friend when he had seen so many perish during the rigors of battle. How at home could he possibly feel among family when they now knew so little of the man he had become?

When thrust back into civilian life, a soldier often feels alone, questioning his place in a world that used to be home to him. But he does know one thing...it is impossible to describe to another how much war can change a man until someone experiences it for himself.

_August 24, 1944_

_ Dear James,_

_ Praise God, we're saved! Just as we were about to liberate a trapped group of civilians from a heavily armed troop of Germans, our mission was interrupted by the welcome arrival of the French 2nd Armored Division and the 4th U.S. Infantry Division. Against this fresh and well organized attack by the Allied forces, the Nazis were utterly swept away. It has been a fierce two days of battle, but our allies have finally succeeded in cleansing Paris of its German occupants, eventually liberating the entire city, including the Arc de Triomphe and the Champs Elysees._

_ Those Nazis that still survive have been corralled into their last remaining stronghold, their headquarters at the Hotel Meurice. This enormous structure has served as the seat of Nazi power since the occupation began and has since become the single most secure structure in all of Paris. While it is currently surrounded by an overwhelmingly large Allied contingent and manned by relatively few Germans, we are still looking at a bloodbath if the Meurice is to be taken by frontal assault._

_ And what of myself and my comrades? We have spent most of the previous few days in a shelter of makeshift hospital tents courtesy of our Allied saviors. While there is a part of me that feels ashamed for sitting out a battle while American lives are spent, the logical side of me argues that in my condition, there is very little I could have done to help. However, as my strength and determination return, so to does my eagerness to see this battle through to the end. While I am apparently already being lauded as a hero for my part in the conflict thus far, I know that there is yet more that my duty demands of me._

_ Most of the surviving FFI soldiers still require medical attention, as do scores of civilians who were unfortunate enough to be caught in the crossfire of war, but it seems that Peggy Carter, Jack Fury, and most of his Howling Commandos remain fit for action. Having consulted with them, it is my decision to confront the commander of the Allied troops, and discuss our plan of attack with him. If all goes well, we will be able to avoid much bloodshed and save many lives, which is, after all, what my original mission detailed in the first place._

_ It is my hope that we will not be parted for much longer, my friend._

_ Your brother,_

_ Steve_

Wrapped in the shadows of the night, underneath a clear, starlit sky and a large round moon, Captain America waited with steeled determination for the signal that would launch their attack on the Hotel Meurice. Out of his peripheral vision he could see Peggy Carter crouching beside him. He could feel her nervous energy, and allowed himself a slight smile knowing that she fed on that energy, using it to fuel her resolve for the upcoming fight.

Behind him, waiting even deeper within the gloom, were the surviving Howling Commandos. Steve knew from experience that most units would be fidgeting in the dark at this point, praying to whatever they believed in for the courage to follow through with their orders...but not the Commandos. They crouched silent and stalwart in their little alley overlooking the hotel. They knew what they had to do, and they knew they had the skills to achieve their objective. All that existed for them that night was the mission, and they would gladly give up their lives to see it achieved.

Steve knew that when it came right down to it, he could trust the Howlers. He was aware that their resolve that night was ironclad, for they had just lost one of their own to the Nazis, and they weren't known for losing gracefully. They had sacrificed a dear brother to the war, and they were going to make the Germans pay for it in blood. It was clear to the super soldier that one thing was certain...this would be a night that they would never forget.

Not for the first time, Steve's mind traveled back to the events of earlier that day. He had first approached Commander Tanguy, the leader of the Resistance, about their plan of attack in an effort to acquire more forces for backup, but their request had been immediately denied. Both the American and French leaders had viewed Steve's plan as rash and poorly conceived. They claimed that the small unit under Steve's command would never be able to infiltrate the hotel and carry out the mission successfully, no matter how skilled the strike force might be. Steve had argued that they were more than capable of carrying out their objective, and that therefor it was their duty to do so. After all, how could anyone not be in favor of a plan that could potentially save the lives of hundreds of Allied soldiers?

That was when the American officer had enough. He had boldly shouted, loud enough for anyone to hear, that he didn't know how a star spangled fool like Captain America, who was nothing more than a glorified P.R. stunt after all, had weaseled his way to the front lines, but he would have none of that kind of tomfoolery on his battlefield. He went on to claim that he appreciated all the effort Steve had put into the war thus far, but that he was no longer in charge, and that as long as he was under the commander's jurisdiction, he was going to be relegated to the sidelines so that the military could conduct the rest of this seige strictly by the book.

Once again a subtle smile crossed Steve's face as he hid in the shadows across from the hotel as he thought about how he and the Howlers had promptly ignored their instructions to stand down, and in direct defiance of his commanding officer's orders, were continuing with their plan anyway. If that gasbag of a CO could see him now, he'd probably burst a blood vessel. Not for the last time Steve wished that James was there. His friend would probably get a real kick out of disobeying orders yet again. After all, reflected Steve, this was not the first time he had pulled a stunt like this. His grin stubbornly remained on his face, (it was easier to think of just about anything than the screaming and the bloodshed of oncoming battle) even when Steve considered that perhaps the commander had been right after all, and that Captain America had let the war become too personal, but he no longer cared. One way or another, the battle of Paris was going to end tonight.

Steve's eyes widened as he snapped to attention. There was the signal, just like they had planned. He could barely make out the silhouette of Jack Fury standing in the third floor window, flicking his flashlight on and off in rough Morse code.

Captain America silently rose and motioned for the others to follow him to the small entrance on the left side of the hotel. Jack had been assigned the most dangerous job of all. While the squad's overall mission was to break into the heavily guarded German stronghold in an effort to capture or kill the two men in charge of the Nazi operation, Baron Zemo and General von Choltitz, Fury's job was to infiltrate the base in disguise and dispatch any and all guards that might have been assigned to the poorly lit, tiny servant's entrance of the hotel that they had deemed the most advantageous place to gain entry. Not an easy task, to be sure.

But Steve had faith in the man, and that faith had been rewarded. Unfortunately, because they had not been given their commander's blessing, they had to be just as wary of their own Allied forces as they were of the Germans. But the Howlers were not to be so easily dissuaded. With a stealth that no other unit could hope to boast, the infiltrators sneaked past the assembled Allied guard and their barricade which surrounded the hotel, invisible against the inky curtain of the night, and wordlessly filed in through the small door, hidden within an isolated corner of the hotel's perimeter, as swiftly and imperceptibly as a whiff of smoke upon the wind.

Fury met them just inside the cramped door, still sliding out of his purloined Nazi uniform, "It's just like we thought, Steve," he said, making sure his firearm was ready. "Th' officers an' such should be bunked up on the top floors, including Zemo an' Choltitz."

"Good, then you know what to do," Steve replied, looking around the small stairwell in an attempt to get the lay of the place.

"Yeah, we're th' distraction," nodded Jack. "Me an' the Howlers are gonna head down to th' basement and make as much noise as we can. That should lure security down to our position and leave the top floors clear for you."

"You remember where the corridor you're supposed to find is located?"

Jack nodded again, letting his men fan out and secure the area around them, "It shouldn't be a problem. I memorized the building's schematics pretty well. Where did you dig up th' old floor plans fer this place, anyway?"

Peggy looked up from hastily checking her gear to address her friend, "Oh, the Resistance kept schematics for all the major buildings in the city for our hit and run missions. We wouldn't have survived very long without them."

But Fury could tell that the super soldier still wasn't satisfied, "Don't worry, Steve. There's only one way in or out of the hallway where we'll set up shop, an' the supply caches down there should provide us with plenty of cover. As long as you don't take too long on your end, we'll be fine."

The three friends snapped to attention as shouting and gunshots were heard down the hall, "Captain Fury, they're onto us!" exclaimed one of his men, returning fire.

"Good luck, Jack," Steve said, placing a strong hand on his friend's shoulder.

"You too, Steve," Jack replied, their eyes meeting for an instant before he nodded to Peggy and took off down the staircase, his men hot on his heels as more Germans appeared down the hallway.

But Steve and Peggy had already shot up the stairs, leaving the surprised Germans farther and farther behind. As they continued upwards, they would occasionally hear more Nazis rushing here and there from the other side of the walls, but the two friends were never discovered. So far their plan was working perfectly. The auxiliary staircase they had chosen was rarely used, so it was perfect for climbing all the way to the top floors of the Meurice. Once there, it would be easy to locate General von Choltitz and force him to surrender, at which time he would order his men to stand down, thereby saving the Howling Commandos, who would be battling the Nazis on the lower levels. The problem would be dealing with his lieutenant and bodyguard, Baron Heinrich Zemo.

Finally the stairs ended, and Steve and Peggy paused just inside the door which led out into the hallway. Steve hesitated for only a moment to look back at the woman he loved. Peggy's eyes softened for an instant while her face showed the barest hint of a smile, as if to reassure him that no matter what happened next, they would face it together. Then, knowing that they didn't have much time, Steve opened the door, leaping through with his shield already raised to cover them.

It was a good thing Steve had been ready, because before he had even moved entirely through the door he heard the sound of a bullet pinging off his shield. Instantly alert and relying on instinct, he fell to a crouching position, allowing Peggy to fire off a few rounds from above before dropping behind the cover he provided herself.

"Captain America," came a mocking voice from down the hallway. "I might have known."

Steve instantly recognized the condescending tone, "Baron Zemo," growled the Captain in reply from behind the safety of his shield. "Surrender now and nobody has to get hurt."

"I'm afraid it's too late for that," Zemo answered, his voice adopting his trademark casually superior tone. "Clever plan though, on your part. Infiltrating our last remaining stronghold during cover of darkness and then using your precious elite Howling Commando unit as little more than a diversion while the good Captain sneaks away to capture the General himself. A pity you're too late."

"Too late?" asked Steve, in a dangerously low tone.

"That is correct," Zemo replied. "The escape plan I designed for General von Choltitz was so cunning and efficient (if I do say so myself) that he had already been spirited away practically before the first alarm sounded. And since I gain nothing by staying here to quell your little insurrection personally, I shall be on my way as well. Good day."

And with that, Baron Zemo began climbing up the fire escape ladder to the roof.

"You're not running anywhere, Zemo!" Steve shouted, bursting from behind his shield and running as fast as he could down the hall.

"Where does he think he's going?" Peggy asked, right on Steve's heels. "Once he gets to the roof there's no way for him to escape. He'll be cornered."

"I'm not sure what he has in mind," Steve answered, reaching the ladder just as the heavy metallic door to the roof slammed shut above him, blocking him off from his foe. "But you can bet that Zemo has something up his sleeve. We can't afford to underestimate him again."

Baron Zemo bounded across the roof of the Meurice as swiftly as he could. Although he was trying hard to maintain his calm composure, there was no denying the gravity of the situation. It had been blatantly obvious for days that the Nazi occupation of Paris was finished. Without reinforcements from Berlin they'd had no hope of repelling the significant Allied force that had been dispatched to reclaim the city. They all knew that it was only a matter of time before they would be forced to retreat.

But Heinrich had always assumed that he would be fast and intelligent enough to avoid capture when the time came. After all, he had a foolproof escape plan and he knew that he was more than capable of handling whatever the pitifully trained Allied soldiers could throw at him.

But he had to admit that seeing Captain America alive again, after the beating he'd received at Heinrich's hands and the devastating battle that had engulfed the city, had rattled him. For the first time the thought of not making it out of the city alive, or bound in chains, seemed to be a realistic possibility. A cold sweat began to bead on his brow, and aided by the cool evening breeze, caused a chill to run down his spine. But through all the years he had served his Fuehrer he had never allowed the horrors of the war to cast its shadow of doubt across his mind. Such thoughts were beneath him, after all. And he was not about to let himself become comsumed by fear now. And as he reached his destination on the other side of the roof, he resolved that he would do whatever it took to flee Paris, no matter what.

Heinrich could hear a loud banging coming from the roof access hatch on the other side of the building as Captain America began hammering the heavy metallic door with his shield in an effort to smash it open. With his enemy's enhanced strength, the Nazi officer knew he only had a few moments to make good his escape as he fumbled with trembling fingers with the heavy tarp which concealed his cunning plan.

A proud smile creased Heinrich's face as the cold night wind aided him by whipping the tarp up and over his head, revealing the state of the art machine which lay beneath it. He had commissioned the airborne vehicle before he'd left Germany, and paid for it with his own money. His commander knew nothing of it, and even the Feuhrer himself hadn't dared to use it, deeming it too experimental to be safe. But Heinrich believed in his own design, and gleaming and shining in the moonlight as it was, he felt no qualms about trusting his brand new state-of-the-art prototype gyrocopter with his life, even if the mass of whirling and spinning metallic blades was still dubbed too dangerous and unstable for use by some of his comrades.

However, Heinrich was still sorely pressed for time as he hopped into the small, cramped aircraft and swiftly began prepping it for flight. While the gyrocopter had distinct advantages over other, more conventional aircraft, such as the ability to land and take off in any situation and the significantly smaller amount of fuel it required, it was still difficult to adapt to a hostile environment, such as a war zone. Its design necessitated a light, agile frame, and was thus extremely susceptible to incoming fire. So when Captain America and his embarrassingly incompetent wench burst from the fire escape onto the roof, he knew that if he couldn't get away now, he wouldn't be getting away at all.

But it was too late.

Without skipping a beat Heinrich heard a deep grunt coming from the other side of the roof. His eyes widened with shock as he looked over just in time to see a flash of red, white, and blue, as Captain America's shield flew across the space separating them and struck the primary propeller rotor with devastating force, smashing it to pieces. The Baron's flight had been cut short before it had even begun. He had been effectively grounded.

Heinrich gritted his teeth, gripping the stick so hard that his fingers turned white. It was no longer fear he felt in his heart, oh no, it was fury. It was only extremely rarely that anyone dared to interfere with his designs, and he had never handled disappointment well. No, Heinrich found that he was quite put out...quite put out _indeed_!

But while Baron Zemo held onto his anger, using it to fuel his strength, he only allowed himself to show it for the briefest of moments, "Never let them see your true colors," his father had said to him as a child. "For while they are deceived by your lies, you hold the key to victory."

"Never let them see..." Zemo murmured to himself as he stepped out of his beautiful, damaged gyrocopter, once again adopting his mask of charm that now came as naturally to him as breathing. "Never let them see."

As Captain America's feet pounded across the rooftop, he reflected that he was at a disadvantage before the fight had even begun. On the one hand, he had succeeded in preventing Zemo from escaping, but in doing so he had discarded his triangular shield, which was now stuck in the gyrocoptor's rotor. Without it, he would be vulnerable against the Baron's lightning fast, precision attacks. On the other hand, he hadn't had much of a choice in the matter. Everything depended on this fight, and if he was going to emerge victorious, he couldn't afford the luxury of second guessing himself. He had to have faith in his own strength, and he had to have faith that Peggy would back him up when he needed it.

Steve tried to ignore the confident smirk on the Baron's face as he emerged from the ruined copter. If Zemo was going to be brought to justice, it had to be done now. They wouldn't get another chance to avenge the deaths of Peggy's men whom he had betrayed, or the ruined lives of the citizens of Paris. Everything that had happened to him since he had arrived at the city, all the pain and death, had led up to this moment. The super soldier took a deep breath, steeling himself as he locked eyes with those of his enemy. One way or the other, the Battle of Paris was about to end.


	32. Chapter 32

The Age of Marvels:

Chapter Thirty Two

Captain America

and the

Invaders

Part Thirty Two

_**During the darkest days of World War II, America stood united against the threat of the Nazi Germany war machine. Our Greatest Generation sacrificed everything in order to stem the forces of oppression from overrunning our very planet, led under the fearless banner of the greatest hero of our time, Captain America. Inspired by his courageous example, and with the aid of his misfit band of Invaders, Captain America led the forces of freedom to victory, changing his world forever.**_

New Jersey

The home of Mr. Barnes

"Go greased lighting, you're burning up the quarter mile..."

"What the...," exclaimed Fury as his one good eye snapped open, frantically looking around the living room trying to find the source of the noise which had disturbed him.

But he wasn't the only one awake now, "Gah!" shouted old man Barnes, instantly spasming into an upright position in his chair. "Nosir, I wasn't the guy who sabotaged the porta-john! I don't know how those wheels got on the bottom of it!"

Still half asleep, Barnes' hand reflexively shot out to the old, antique radio on the table beside him and slammed the snooze button as hard as his feeble arm could manage, mercifully cutting short the lounge band's stirring rendition of Greased Lightning.

"Nobody should be singing that out of tune this early in the morning," grumbled Fury, his tone somewhere between a growl and a whine.

Mr. Barnes couldn't help but smile as he wiped the sleep from his eyes, "Yeah, but you gotta admit, it sure helps you get the lead out when you wake up. A shock every now and again is good for you. Lets you know you're alive."

But Fury was ignoring the old man, having become acutely aware that the sun was rising, and had seen fit to burn his retina out with a single beam of sunlight which was streaking across the living room and hitting him square in the face, "Whatever you say, sir. Listen, I hope you don't mind, but I took the liberty of sifting through some of your old letters while you were sleeping."

Mr. Barnes leaned over, peering at the aged leaves of paper on the couch, "Aah, it's fine, Colonel. Nothing in there I wasn't going to tell you eventually, anyway. Want some coffee?"

Colonel Fury peered down at his watch for the time, but his vision was still too blurry to make out the numbers, "Sure... What time is it, anyway?"

Mr. Barnes leaned back in his chair with a wide smile, clearly already fully awake, "It's six a.m. on the dot, and if you want coffee, you're gonna have to make it yourself!"

The senior's sickeningly cheerful attitude only resulted in Fury's scowl deepening even further, "Oh, and while you're up, could you grab a bagel for an old man? I'd get one myself, but if I start moving around before eight, these old arthritic bones of mine feel like they're gonna snap like dry twigs. Get a move on, now. I'd like to eat before Good Morning America comes on. I just love that George Snuffleupagus!"

The high ranking Colonel stomped off to the kitchen to do the little old man's bidding, grumbling all the way, "I'll get yer rassum frassum _coffee _an' yer rassum frassum _bagel_! Only friggin six in th' rassum frassum _morning_! I bet the ol' geezer doesn't even _have _arthritis..."

"I heard that, young man!" Barnes shouted from his chair. "And don't skimp on the cream cheese. Grampa likes his bagels nice and artery clogging."

Mr. Barnes could hear an irritated bang resound from the kitchen in reply as he snuggled down in his warm chair and turned the television to his favorite channel with his trusty remote, "Kids these days..."

August 24, 1944

Paris, France

Atop the Hotel Meurice

The evening wind which whipped by Captain America as he stood resolutely on the roof of the Hotel Meurice was surprisingly chilly for August, but it meant less than nothing to the super soldier. Peggy Carter couldn't help but notice, as she stood behind him, that Steve seemed almost to glow in the moonlight, despite the stern expression worn on his face. She knew that she should have been focusing more on the enemy, Baron Zemo had proved himself to be a daunting adversary after all, but there was just something about Steve at that moment which captivated her. He faced Zemo with such confidence, despite the fact that he had been beaten to within an inch of his life by the Nazi officer only a week ago. He was sure of his skills, and excelled in strategy, but more than that, he was bolstered by the principals which he had sworn to uphold. Steve was clearly in his element. There would be no stopping him tonight.

"You have one chance to surrender, Zemo. I suggest you take it," said Steve, his strong voice ringing through the clear evening air.

The Baron didn't seem impressed, "I respectfully decline, Captain," he replied, a lightly mocking tone in his voice. "After all, considering the damage you inflicted on my _very expensive _and _ultra chic _gyrocopter, I feel that I am owed some kind of recompense," he finished, his voice betraying an irritation Steve had never heard in his tone as he quickly drew his sword.

With a light flick of his wrist, the one of a kind blade extended from the hilt of the sword, and with a metallic sheen, solidified into a razor sharp vibranium point. Steve hadn't forgotten the pain he'd felt at the hand of the weapon the last time they'd fought, but he was ready for it now. He would not be caught by surprise by the hidden firearm which was cunningly concealed in the sword's hilt again. If Zemo thought that victory would come as easily a second time, he was in for a surprise.

"If all you're worried about is your little toy," said Steve, indicating the smashed gyrocopter behind the baron. "Than you've clearly been a little too sheltered during this war."

"_Sheltered?!_" Zemo protested, shock written all over his face. "I'll have you know that since the war broke out, the thread count of my fabulous neckerchief here has dropped by at least ten percent. _Ten percent_! Do you have any idea how upset my tailor will be when I return home with the family heirloom in this condition? Why, I'll never hear the end of it."

"Wow. My heart bleeds for you," replied Peggy, her voice dripping sarcasm. "Whatever will you do without your sissy pink scarf?"

"It's _fuchsia_!" Zemo shouted, stomping his foot in an obvious display of irritation. "Why can't anyone see that?!"

With an effeminate shout of rage, Baron Zemo leaped at Peggy, sword drawn and flashing in the moonlight. Taken by surprise, the resistance fighter didn't even have time to bring her firearm to bear before the German was upon her. But Captain America had anticipated the attack, and had just enough time to leap between them, his shield protecting them both from the deadly vibranium blade.

"Ha! Your precious shield will not save you, Captain," Zemo boasted, pressing his attack and forcing Steve backwards. "Or have you forgotten our last sparring match?"

Steve gritted his teeth as he focused intently on his opponent's movements. He had spent quite a lot of time over the past few days obsessively running through their previous battle in his mind, recalling every detail of the fight until he'd memorized it entirely, and he knew that he could not match the Baron for raw speed and cunning. Luckily, he had other options...

Six months ago

Project Rebirth Complex

"What the...whoah!" James shouted, suddenly realizing that he'd lost control of the situation.

"And that's how it's done, boy!" said Stick, triumphantly slamming James to the mat, knocking the air out of him in the process. "Now pick your sorry butt back up and tell me how I beat the living daylights outta you."

James was trembling with exertion as he slowly hauled himself back up to a crouching position, "I... (wheeze) I don't understand, sir. (cough) I don't know _how _I lost."

"Why's that, son?"

"No offense," said James, catching his breath a little. "But I'm (cough cough) bigger an' stronger. I should'a been able to overpower you easily. You weren't even using your walking stick!"

"And therein lies the lesson for today," Stick replied, casually retrieving and leaning back on his cane with a knowing grin.

From his position standing in line with the other recruits, frail Steve Rogers couldn't believe his eyes. When they were growing up, he'd seen James Barnes beat the snot out of three or four kids at the same time, some of whom were even bigger than James had been. How was it that a half crippled old man had gotten the best of him like that? Steve couldn't help thinking that he must have seriously underestimated Stick, and resolved never to make that mistake again. Project Rebirth was definitely full of surprises.

"No matter how well trained you are, when it comes to physical prowess, there will always be someone bigger and stronger than you," said Stick, frowning deeply as he paced past the recruits lined before him. "And I cannot train you to be the best at hand to hand combat either. There will _always _be someone better than you. Remember that."

"I don't understand," James piped up, his voice ragged with exhaustion. "If we're not here to become the best, then what are we here for?"

Stick didn't skip a beat, "You are here to learn as much as you can so that when you leave here you can fight for your country. But make no mistake, some day you will meet someone out there who is stronger, faster, and more experienced than you are, and if you're not careful he will kill you in the blink of an eye, and America will be down one very expensive super soldier."

"Well what do you want us to do?" asked James, utterly confused. "If our opponent is that much stronger and faster, other than retreating, what options do we have?"

"Use your head, boy!" Stick snapped, popping James smartly over the head with his cane. "No matter what situation you find yourself in, your _head _is always your best weapon. A clear mind and sound judgement are more valuable than anything else on the battlefield. In times like these you must use your environment, and anything you might know about the enemy, to your advantage. Do whatever you have to do to rattle him or make him overconfident. Make sure that you're the only one thinking rationally, with a sound tactical mind, and whatever the odds are, you can swing them in your favor. Now get up and try again, boy! I ain't got all day!"

SMACK!

"Owch! I think you bruised my spleen!"

SMACK!

"Ow! My _other _spleen!"

Steve's mind was brought back to the present as the tip of Zemo's sword nicked his skin. If the super soldier didn't concentrate, he wasn't going to be able to walk away from the battle at all. Captain America spared a glance from the Baron's lightning fast attacks to check on Peggy. She was standing a few yards away, glancing furtively between Steve and his adversary. Her pistol was clutched in her shaking hands, but she couldn't fire it without the very real risk of hitting Steve. Cap grunted with effort as he blocked yet another deadly blow from Zemo. If Peggy was going to get a clear shot, he would have to somehow impair the Baron's movements. But how could he do that if he wasn't even able to land a single blow on him?

Desperately trying to think of some kind of strategy, his mind suddenly recalled Stick's lecture about how to defeat more experienced foes. At the moment Zemo certainly had the upper hand, and was slowly forcing Steve to the edge of the roof. If Steve didn't get his act together fast, he would soon be facing a deadly eight story plunge to his doom, so Steve forced himself to take a deep breath, narrowed his eyes in concentration, and began focusing on his foe and surroundings.

And as soon as he cleared his mind, it became obvious to Captain America that between himself and his enemy, he was the only one employing any kind of focus whatsoever. Either because his dwindling army was fighting a losing battle, or because his escape attempt had been thwarted, Zemo had definitely become distracted distracted. His movements resembled more the attacks of a panicked, cornered animal rather than the precise, aloof efficiency which he had demonstrated so well the first time they'd met. Steve could tell that Zemo was beginning to buckle under the pressure, while the super soldier was still at the top of his game, despite his previous injuries. Steve could smell fear in the air, and he was not going to waste the opportunity.

With not a small amount of effort, Steve forced himself to breathe and calm down. Zemo knew how to use his unique sword with a speed and accuracy that was truly frightening, but rattled and distracted as he was, Steve realized that his adversary had become fairly predictable. Wielding his shield as fast as he could, his reflexes finely honed both by his Project Rebirth training and his experience on the field of battle, Captain America found that as long as he kept himself calm and collected, he could block Zemo's strikes much more easily, and secure in this knowledge, he began slowly advancing, pushing his enemy back farther and farther from the perilous edge of the building.

"What? Th-this is impossible!" Zemo exclaimed in dismay, what was left of his composure quickly evaporating. "I don't understand!"

Captain America continued parrying the Baron's strikes, his confidence rising, "Well you see, Zemo, a friend of mine once explained it to me like this...during war there are three types of information, what we know, what we don't know, and what we don't know we don't know."

"Yes, that sounds vaguely familiar," said Zemo, spitting out his reply as beads of sweat began to form on his brow. "I believe I may have already skimmed through that chapter, but do go on."

The Captain ignored him as he pressed his attack, "This school of thought can be applied to any combat situation," he continued. "In this scenario, what you know is me. You know how much strength and stamina I have, and you know how I'll naturally react and move when attacked. In short, you know the extent of my abilities and how my mind works."

"Yes, but that doesn't seem to be doing me a lot of good now, does it?" Zemo asked, trying hard to maintain his usual casual attitude.

"And that brings me to what you don't know," said the super soldier, momentarily breaking through Zemo's defense and delivering a powerful swipe to his enemy's face, which was just barely dodged. "You don't know that practically every minute since you defeated me I have been mentally reviewing every detail of our last fight. I have replayed that day over and over in my mind until I memorized every move you made, and developed strategies to match your combat style."

Steve's voice dropped dangerously low as he narrowed his eyes and glared at his enemy, "The first time we met I wasn't prepared because you caught me off guard, and the people of Paris are suffering and starving because of my mistake. I won't let that happen again."

Now Zemo was really scared. From her position several yards away, Peggy could see sweat pouring from the German officer as fear showed plainly through his eyes. She couldn't blame him. The determination and barely suppressed rage in Steve's voice was enough to strike fear into any heart. That was part of what had made her fall in love with him in the first place. Steve Rogers may be the most ridiculously dressed, over-hyped American ever to cross the pond, but his heart and soul and conviction was simply astonishing. To glance into a determination so steeled, and a heart that strong, was to be blindingly reminded of the potential that every man, woman, and child possessed, a potential that all too often lay dormant due to neglect, forgetfulness, and willful ignorance on a scale that bordered on the criminal. And sometimes it took an extraordinary man, a man like Steve Rogers, to remind people of who they could be, and inspire them to become that better person. It was no wonder then, as Baron Zemo stared into the eyes of the Sentinel of Liberty, that his spirit quailed, such a small, pitiful, quivering thing, against the light and truth with which it had been exposed.

But a cornered animal is the most dangerous animal. And Zemo, desperate as he was, was nothing without his ruthless nature. Bounding away from Steve, Zemo leaped away from the fight, crossing the roof like lighting, and before Peggy could even register what was happening, the Baron had dashed behind her, pinned her arms to her side as he grabbed her, and had her held at the point of his blade. In one brilliant tactical move, he had turned the tide of the battle, using the soldier's own allies against him.

"Okay Captain," said Zemo, breathing heavily as he dug the sword tip ever so slightly into Peggy's neck. "I admit that you've given me a run for my money. I haven't been challenged like this since grade school, but the fun's over. You are going to stand there and watch ineptly as I make my escape, or your little strumpet will die in a rather unpleasant manner."

"Strumpet?!" Peggy couldn't help but shout, enraged by her own helplessness. "I'll have you know that I _outrank _Captain Subtlety over there...and for that matter I may outrank _you_! Once I get outta here I'll make you pay for that 'strumpet' remark!"

"I'm afraid that's not going to happen," Zemo replied as he slowly backed away towards the roof access hatch. "You see, by the time you are once again free, I'll already be down that hatch and halfway out the building. You'll never see me again, and here's why. I'm smart enough to know when the jig is up. Hitler can have his little war, because he's lost his momentum and if he doesn't wise up he'll be staring down the barrel of an Allied siege of Berlin itself. Between the Americans in the West and those damn stubborn Russians in the East, he's got his hands full. Meanwhile, I'll soon be sitting on the beach of some tropical South American island with a martini in one hand and eating caviar with the other, as I am fanned by a pair of beautiful, tanned Brazilian women while I watch the sun set over the water."

"Well I'll give you this," Steve said, fearlessly facing the Baron and his hostage. "You've got a pretty vivid imagination, because that's never going to happen."

"And why is that?" Zemo sneered, hatefully.

"Because you've forgotten one very important thing," Captain America said, calmly. "The third part of the equation...what you don't _know _you don't know. See, you now find yourself in a position of such ignorance, that you can't even see well enough to know which questions to ask. I'll give you one last chance to surrender."

At that point Zemo was so frightened that he could not keep his body from shaking, but his hatred had consumed his reason. As his face twisted into an expression of vile revulsion, he spat on the roof in answer to his foe. He had already played his hand, and had chosen to let the cards fall where they may.

As she attempted to ignore the sharp, stabbing pain in her neck, Peggy, trying hard to swallow the fear which threatened to engulf her, had to admit to herself that she had no idea what Steve was planning. From where she was standing, Zemo had the upper hand. Where was Steve's confidence coming from anyway? But then Steve glanced directly at her and gave a barely perceptible nod, and she instantly knew what he had in mind. While her arms were still pinned painfully to her sides, she still held her gun tightly in her grasp, and though it wouldn't be easy, if she was quick enough she knew she might be able to pull this off. She wished she could twist her wrist enough to somehow take a shot at Zemo, but in her current state, that would be completely impossible. As much as she disliked it, her only choice was to follow Steve's lead.

But she wasn't the only one who noticed something amiss, "What are you..." Zemo began to ask.

But he was already too late.

Peggy couldn't move her arm, but she could still move her hand slightly, and with one small jerk of her wrist she aimed her pistol up and fired directly at Steve before Zemo could even register what was going on. Pushing his heightened senses and reflexes to the limit, trusting in the bond that he'd formed with his shield over the course of the war, Captain America instantly responded, and faster than he could think, he positioned his shield in front of the speeding bullet at just the right angle.

Steve had devised this plan during the last week, and although it was exceptionally risky and could only rarely be used, this tactic could potentially prove extremely useful in a pinch. Peggy had initially turned down the strategy, claiming that it was far too dangerous and that no one, not even a super soldier, could pull it off. But in this current moment which seemed to stretch on forever, Peggy was forced to swallow her fear and doubt, choosing instead to put her faith in Steve. They were out of options, and she would be damned if she let the monster who had slaughtered her men escape justice now.

It was over in a flash. Zemo had been in the middle of asking a question, Peggy's hand was still raised as a thin wisp of smoke trailed from her gun's barrel, and Cap was frozen in his defensive position, triangular shield still raised at an odd angle.

But one crucial thing had changed in that instant, Baron Zemo's head had been blown wide open as the bullet ricocheted off Cap's shield and struck the Nazi instead. Captain America had had to calculate the exact right angle in order to enact his strategy, praying that he would not accidentally hit Peggy instead of his intended target. He had never had the opportunity to test this move in battle, so he had no idea if it would work, but he didn't have a choice, and it was now or never. He had to make a decision, and it had paid off.

A surreal expression of shock was still plastered on Zemo's face as a large hole had been cut through his skull, exposing the matter inside. Blood trickled down his scalp as his throat seized and his lips twitched repulsively. Then with a sickening motion, he collapsed onto the roof, his eyes still twitching back and forth as his lips mouthed silent words of protest.

Steve quietly walked over to join Peggy, as the two looked down at the body of the once powerful Baron, "I wish there had been another way," he said, reluctantly.

Peggy couldn't help but scowl down at the one who had caused her and her men so much pain and death, "He deserved it," she replied, her voice devoid of pity. "I'm glad we sent that bastard to hell."

For the briefest of moments, the Baron's eyes refocused on the pair standing above him as he finally managed to choke out a few throaty words, "The world...will remember...me..." he said, his voice barely a whisper.

"The only thing you'll be remembered for is how you heartlessly butchered innocent people," Captain America replied, his tone ice cold. "...And your stupid pink scarf."

"It's...(cough), fuchsia," Zemo managed to say, the light dimming from his eyes as he breathed his final breath. "Fuchsiaaaaaaa..."

"Those were, without a doubt, the worst last words ever spoken," Peggy couldn't help but reply as she turned from the still body of her enemy.

"You said it," Steve agreed. "Now lets get out of here and find Fury. I'm sure his men need all the help they can get right about now."

It turned out that Jack Fury and the Howling Commandos had things pretty much under control down in the subbasement of the Hotel Meurice. By pure happenstance, the hallway in which they'd chosen to make their stand had been the one that the Nazis had chosen as their main ammunition stash, which meant that the Howlers were already sitting on all the heavy artillery that the Germans needed to get to in order to defeat them. Additionally, the ragged Nazi force had been anticipating a large scale siege to commence the next day, so they had spent most of the night resting and recuperating in preparation for a battle they would now never fight, and so had been caught completely off guard by the unexpected late night raid they were currently facing. So when Captain America and Peggy Carter arrived, taking the beleaguered Germans by surprise from behind, the uncoordinated and clumsy Nazi forces were easily bested.

Despite their victory, Steve was initially concerned because the commander in chief of the Nazi forces in Paris, General von Choltitz, had gotten away, which would have severely impeded the city's ability to peacefully transition from a war zone back into a stable, self-sufficient area. But while chance was on Von Choltitz's side when Baron Zemo had bought him enough time to escape via a secret tunnel connecting the Hotel to the extensive underground sewer network beneath Paris, his luck ran out when he emerged from a manhole right in the middle of a heavily armed squad of Allied soldiers.

As soon as the sun rose that morning, Captain America, Peggy, and the Howling Commandos bore proud witness as General von Choltitz was forced to surrender the city to Charles de Gaulle, General of the Free French Allied contingent, and Commander Tanguy, leader of the French Forces of the Interior, who had finally, after many years of horrendous sacrifice and bravery, led the French Resistance to victory over all odds. As the short ceremony ended, Steve could see Peggy begin to tear up, but he was smart enough not to let on. This was the day she had fought for years to see, and she honestly had never expected to survive long enough to watch it actually unfold before her, but now that it was here, it was like something out of a dream...an amazing, wonderful dream. The liberation of Paris was complete.

Officially, Steve, Peggy, Jack, and his men were all awarded medals of honor for their valorous acts during the battle and their daring escapade inside the Hotel Meurice. Unofficially, Steve Rogers and his friends received the chewing out of a lifetime from their commanding officers for disobeying direct orders. Steve had never seen anyone so angry as his CO was that day. With all that shouting, screaming, cursing, and spit flying everywhere, he felt like he was back on the front lines again. However as Steve stood there getting scolded, his only regret was that he didn't have a camera so he could take a picture for James. He hid a smile as he thought about his best friend's hobby, which was annoying his CO's as often as he could possibly get away with it.

Then something the officer said stopped Steve right in his tracks, "Rogers, you ship out tomorrow morning. HQ wants you to report to them pronto for a new mission briefing."

Steve's heart froze in his chest. He was leaving? Tomorrow? What about Peggy? He only had one more day to spend with her? It was too soon to leave her behind! Trying to hide his shock from the CO, Steve dared to glance over at Peggy, who was standing at attention beside him, and thought he caught her looking his way as well, a worried glint in her eyes. What were they going to do? Unfortunately they both missed Jack Fury as he rolled his eyes at the two of them with an exasperated sigh.

Everyone who had been involved with the Meurice raid had been given the rest of the day for some much needed R-and-R, but Steve didn't know what to do with himself. He was much too tense to relax, so he spent most of the day wandering aimlessly around the Allied encampment within Paris, lending a hand where he could and trying to be as generally helpful as possible. But his distracted countenance didn't remain unnoticed for long, and as often as not he wound up just making a nuisance of himself instead.

But Steve couldn't help it. Try as he might, he couldn't keep his mind off Peggy Carter. He could scarcely believe that their time together was almost up. Even though they had only met a week ago, after everything they'd been through it felt like so much longer. After a while, he had begun to think of her and Jack like he thought of the Invaders, that they would always be around for him to depend on, that they would always be together, like family.

It infuriated Steve that he and Peggy had known each other just long enough to acknowledge that they had feelings for one another, but too briefly to build any kind of lasting relationship. What was going to happen between them now? Would they ever even see each other again? Would she forget all about him in a few months or years, as if the time they'd spent together had meant nothing? It wasn't fair.

Eventually, Steve found himself wandering into a makeshift bar near the Allied encampment. Meandering inside and ordering a beer, he hadn't even noticed who he had randomly sat beside until he was spoken too.

"Yer lookin' pretty glum fer a famous war hero, Rogers," came Fury's familiar, gruff voice from the next bar stool.

"Jack!" Steve exclaimed in surprise as he jumped a little in his seat. "I'm sorry, I didn't see you there. I didn't think I'd bump into anyone I knew here at this hour."

Jack shrugged nonchalantly, "Whaddaya expect, Steve? I got th' whole day to myself, finally a chance fer some peace an' quiet, an entire 24 hours of endless possibilities and complete freedom...so naturally I'm spending them at a bar getting completely drunk off my ass. Care to join me?"

Steve gladly accepted a mug from the barkeep and clinked it against Jack's appreciatively, "There's nothing I would enjoy more."

After a moment or two of enthusiastic guzzling, Jack broke what was quickly becoming an uncomfortable silence by asking the obvious question, "So Steve, what's got ya down?"

Steve silently stared into his mug, unresponsive.

"It's Peggy, isn't it?"

"How did you know?" Steve asked, surprised.

Jack slammed his mug down in irritation, suddenly realizing that he'd had it up to there with his two friend's relationship problems, "Jeez, you two are worse'n a couple of teenagers with all yer drama. So it's a little awkward, so it's a little uncomfortable, especially with a banshee like her, but if yer so upset about not having enough time with her, then why in _blazes _aren't you spending time with her _now_?!"

"Yer a grown man, Steve!" Jack continued, beer sloshing out of his mug as he gesticulated with drunken gusto. "I've seen you stare death in the face without batting an eye on more than one occasion, so I think you can force yerself to go and talk to a girl! Now grow a pair and get outta here!"

Steve was stunned into shocked silence...until a look of determination slowly spread across his face, "You're right, Jack! What am I doing? If I've only got a few hours left here, than by God, I'm gonna spend them with her!"

Steve's beer was instantly forgotten as he got up and turned to leave, stomping out of the room on a crusade to see his girl, leaving Jack all alone at the bar, "Good luck, ya hopeless sap," he muttered to himself before ordering another drink.

"Peggy, I know I'm supposed to leave in the morning, but there's something I want to say to you," Steve said in a strong voice as he flung open the door to Peggy's room a few minutes later. "I..."

And Steve was stopped dead in his tracks at the image that greeted him. There Peggy was, sitting on her bed, her face hidden in her hands, sobbing uncontrollably. Steve's enthusiasm instantly dissolved as he realized that there were no words to comfort her, a soldier who no longer had a war to wage. She didn't bother to look up as Steve softly shut the door and went to sit by his love, draping a comforting arm over her shoulders as she buried herself in his embrace. Her body convulsed as her deep wailing grew louder, filling the room with her sorrow as Steve held her closely, a deep woe filling his heart while another part of him was grateful to simply be there for his friend.

Steve didn't have to ask what was wrong. They were both soldiers, after all, both connected by that unspeakable bond, and he'd seen it before. When the battle was over and the dust and the bodies had fallen, when a man had given so much of himself to the fight that it had consumed him and become his entire world, and he'd seen so many of his friends and family fall, and seen so much of himself crumble away, all for the sake of the war...when that battle was finally over, and the banner had been raised and all the chaos had finally died down and only the terrible quiet remained, sometimes that was when it hurt the most. When so much had been sacrificed for the sake of victory, when that victory was finally achieved it could be the hardest thing in the world to endure. There could be so much anger and fear and hate and unbearable sorrow inside a soldier's heart, so much pain and suffering and so many, too many, memories of friends who had been taken away forever. And all the while there remained the quiet question that was too shameful to ask...was it even worth it?

And now, at the end, when all those things had faded away, taking one more piece of her away with them, Peggy had found herself completely overwhelmed with emotion and uncertainty, for it hadn't been until now that she could see the future she had been fighting for so clearly, the future that he had become blind too. When it felt like all she had ever known was the pain and the fighting and the death, the scariest thing in the world to her now was the uncertain future that waited for her. Now that she no longer know what to do with herself, when she finally had to begin looking farther ahead than the next kill or the next meal or the next time she'd be able to catch some sleep...what was she going to do now that she suddenly had the rest of her life to plan? What was she going to do, when she didn't even know who she was anymore?

And Steve sat there, cradling the woman he'd grown to love so much, wordlessly comforting her as the never ending tears streamed down her face onto his lap, as the minutes turned to hours and the shadows lengthened as the sun began to set on the still smoldering city.

And so, when all these things had passed, when all of the raging emotions and thoughts had played their part and left Peggy, quietly breaking, behind, as she tried to grasp for anything to anchor her damaged soul, the only thing she could feel was Steve's strength beside her. She could feel his steady heartbeat, his sure breathing, his warmth and presence. To her, he was no longer just a man, he was no longer Steve Rogers, he wasn't a soldier, he wasn't Captain America...he had become something altogether special and unique to her, someone far more precious and beautiful than the most brilliant sunrise, or her most cherished memory. She loved him. She loved him so deeply and truly that she almost couldn't bear it. At that moment, when her whole world was unsure and undefined, when she felt she knew nothing and could count on no one, she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she loved Steve Rogers, and she was going to make it count.

Then Steve looked down and saw Peggy looking up at him, her beautiful brown eyes in the soft light and her hair falling down over her shoulders, he knew that he was finally seeing her for who she really was. All the pretending, all the walls, had been cast aside, if only for that evening, and finally both of them were comfortable showing their true selves...and he had never known anything so beautiful in all his life.

They had not realized how close they were to each other, how each could feel the other's breath on their cheek, but somehow, suddenly, they had joined in an irresistible kiss. A tender, loving kiss that seemed to cause the entire world to fade away around them. And as they continued, the passion and longing they felt for each other expressed more than words ever could, while they wrapped themselves ever tighter within their embrace.

Steve found himself being lightly pushed back on the bed as Peggy's hand found its way inside his shirt, feeling his muscular chest while he felt his hands, almost of their own accord, wrap around the small of her back, pressing her soft, supple body against his.

As their breathing grew more and more ragged and clothes became more of a hindrance than anything else, they each knew in their hearts that they belonged together, and that what they were sharing was so real and special, with a wild, passionate unpredictability that could not be controlled. And even though neither of them had ever felt that way before, they knew that that night, who they had become together, so close that it felt as if their souls had merged into one, would remain with them for the rest of their lives.

The next morning saw them fully dressed, outside, and waiting for the troop transport to finish loading up the men and equipment that Steve would be accompanying to headquarters. Steve, Peggy, Jack, and the Howlers were gathered among the hustle and bustle of the military camp getting ready for the day. Amongst the deep sadness that was welling up within him, Steve had to admit in his heart that somewhere inside, he was greatly looking forward to seeing his brothers, the Invaders, once again.

But that couldn't erase the dark regret and sorrow that had eclipsed his heart.

Masking his pain with a smile, he proudly shook the hands of each of the surviving Howlers, Izzy Cohen, Gabe Jones, Dino Manelli, Rebel Ralston, Pinky, and Junior, wishing them well in their upcoming missions and thanking them for their service until he made his way to their commander.

"Jack, it's been an honor and a pleasure," Steve said, throwing his friend a sharp salute.

"The honor's all mine, Steve," Jack replied, a lopsided grin creasing his scruffy features. "Do me a favor and take care of yerself out there, huh?"

Steve couldn't help but let loose a wide smile of gratitude and appreciation for his friend, "You too, Jack."

Before Steve could move on, Jack grasped his hand tightly, pulling him in and giving him a brief, but forceful hug. Steve was almost too astonished to hug him back, but before he knew it, Jack had shoved him away again, and was busy hiding his watery eyes behind another stupid grin.

"Aah, get outta here, willya?" Jack said, playfully. "Yer holdin' up th' whole transport, ya stupid lug. I bet we'll run into each other again by the end of the war anyway, and then I'll have to put up with havin' to save yer sorry hide all over again."

But Steve's attention was on someone else now, Peggy Carter. All traces of yesterday's tears had been swept away by the glorious morning sun now playing across her features, making her stunning blonde hair shine with an almost radiant light. With an aching heart, Steve held out his hand to stroke her cheek, while she reached up and cupped his palm in hers.

"Our time together went by too fast," Steve said quietly, unable to tear himself away from her eyes.

"Yeah, but on the other hand, if you'd stuck around much longer you'd begin to annoy me," she replied, a light laugh escaping her lips as her smile lit up his whole world.

"I love you," said Steve, wondering how it could be that he'd never said those words to her before.

"I love _you_," Peggy answered, all joking cast aside by the complete sincerity in her voice; she didn't know if she'd ever get to say those to him again, after all, and she needed him to know so badly.

Steve brought his face closer to hers, savoring her scent as they shared one last intimate moment, "I'll come back for you, you'll see. After this war is over I'll come right back here and we'll pick up just where we left off. Soon all this fighting will fade away and the future will be for us, just the two of us, and we'll spend every day of it together, okay?"

Peggy fought to hold back her tears, "You promise you'll come back to me?"

Steve had never been more serious about anything in his entire life, "I promise."

And with that, Steve and Peggy shared one last passionate kiss. Once again, the world melted away around them until all that remained was their love. The damaged city, the hoots and hollers of the soldiers cheering them on, and even the damned transport waiting for him faded into nothingness as Steve drank in every bit of her that he could before they would be parted. He would see her again, he just knew it.

With an impossible reluctance, Steve finally pulled himself away from his love, staring into her eyes one last time and caressing her face as he turned to leave.

"Wait! Steve wait!" Peggy shouted, grabbing his arm and forcefully turning him around. "You forgot something!"

"What is it?" asked Steve, checking to make sure that his shield was still hanging across his shoulders.

"It's this," Peggy said, slipping something into Steve's hand as quietly as she could. "I had this taken just before the invasion, and I've been holding onto it ever since, kind of like a memento of how things used to be."

Steve looked down and was shocked to find that he had been given a small, black and white photograph of Peggy, when she had been only a few years younger. She looked amazing. Her hair had been styled, and she was wearing fancier clothes than any he had known her in, and she had just a touch of makeup, but all of that was nothing compared to the smile that she wore upon her face, a radiant smile that was happier and more carefree than any she had worn since Steve had met her.

"I don't need it anymore," Peggy said, sniffing away the tears which threatened to overwhelm her. "I don't need to harp on the past anymore. That's all over now. I have a new future to look forward to, one we can share together."

Steve and Peggy turned as the driver of the transport began shouting at them. Apparently the large truck had been all loaded up and they were ready to go. They had a schedule to keep, and it wouldn't do for Steve to keep holding them back.

"I'll treasure this always," Steve said, looking back to Peggy as he clutched the photograph to his chest. "Take care of this place for me, okay? I'll be back before you know it."

As Steve finally turned to leave, he couldn't help but look back to the friends he had made and the woman he had fallen in love with. Waving as he hopped on the back of the transport, a painfully wide smile enveloped his features at the sight of his friends seeing him off.

"You better come back to me, Steven Bartholomew Rogers!" Peggy shouted at the top of her lungs as the transport lurched and began accelerating down the road. "You hear me?"

"My middle name's not Bartholomew!" Steve shouted back, laughing as his voice barely carried over the sound of the engine.

"It is now!" replied Peggy, her tears flowing down over her smile as she watched her lover growing smaller in the distance. "I love you, you big goofball!"

And that was the last thing Steve heard as the transport rounded the next corner, leaving him all alone, clutching Peggy's photograph as close to his heart as he possibly could.


	33. Chapter 33

Warning: This chapter contains language that may be considered offensive.

The Age of Marvels:

Chapter Thirty Three

Captain America

and the

Invaders

Part Thirty Three

_**During the darkest days of World War II, America stood united against the threat of the Nazi Germany war machine. Our Greatest Generation sacrificed everything in order to stem the forces of oppression from overrunning our very planet, led under the fearless banner of the greatest hero of our time, Captain America. Inspired by his courageous example, and with the aid of his misfit band of Invaders, Captain America led the forces of freedom to victory, changing his world forever.**_

New Jersey

The home of Mr. Barnes

"And that's the story of the Battle of Paris," Mr. Barnes finished, his bagel laying forgotten beside him as he grew silent.

"I had no idea..." Colonel Fury replied, thoughtfully. "You never really hear much concerning Paris during the war other than the jokes about France surrendering so quickly."

The old man chuckled, "Oh yes, you can see why the French are so reluctant to talk about it. They suffered and sacrificed as much as any other nation at the hands of the Nazis, but they got none of the credit. In fact, who knows how the war would have turned out if it wasn't for them. Without their Resistance movement, Paris could have become a well fortified bastion of German strength by the time the Allies arrived. It could have even taken so much time for us to overcome them there, that who knows, Hitler might have even had time to regain his strength and bolster his remaining forces in Berlin in time to change the outcome of the war."

"Who knows..." Fury echoed, lost in his thoughts.

Above them on the second floor, the two old soldiers could hear the rest of the family just beginning to awaken. The sound of muffled voices and footsteps could be heard thumping around above them, serving to remind the Colonel that the night was finally over, and that exhausted or not, the new day demanded his attention.

"So, while Cap was in Paris, what were the rest of the Invaders doing?" he asked, forcing himself back on topic. "Had the team disbanded or what?"

"No no, after all the work that had been put into forming the Invaders, there was no way that the brass was just going to let the group dissolve," Mr. Barnes answered, shaking his head. "After Normandy had been taken, the higher ups decided that we would be more useful if we were temporarily divided up, so we could assist more units now that the theater of war had expanded across Europe."

"I admit that I was stuck in the hospital during most of that time," the old man said, somewhat sheepishly. "But while Steve was in Paris, the rest of us still had to earn our keep. Though the tide of war had turned, the days that lay ahead were no less filled with danger and death, and the Invaders, while separated, found that their abilities were more needed than ever. I remember T'Chaka had a particularly interesting story to tell..."

August, 1944

T'Chaka, King of Wakanda, sighed contentedly as he sat on his barstool and ordered another drink. He was spending the day indulging in some much needed rest and relaxation after the harrowing events of the last week, secure in the knowledge that he and his men had definitely earned some leisure time.

The Black Panther had been assigned to lead several squads on a scouting mission along a river path that until recently had been known to be held in German hands, but thanks to the successful Allied advance across Europe, the status of the territory had been in question.

The Panther's mission parameters had not originally been deemed particularly dangerous, but with T'Chaka's wealth of experience tracking and scouting in his homeland, he had been considered extremely valuable for the success of the venture. And after his team's now famous role during the battle of Normandy, the men under his command were feeling pretty good about the mission as long as they had an Invader in their midst.

Unfortunately, during the course of the mission, the large scouting party ran into considerable opposition. After several days of guerrilla fighting, T'Chaka and his soldiers managed to best the Nazi strike force which assailed them, and while their losses were not high, the outcome of the conflict could have been drastically different had the Black Panther not been there.

Now, with the success of the mission, most of the squad found themselves in the small Dutch town located at the mouth of the river, happily holed up in the local bar and slowly depleting the poor villager's alcohol reserves. The barkeep, a large, bushy bearded walrus of a man, seemed as happy as could be as he watched the soldier's money roll in, while his regulars sat in an isolated corner, deep scowls creasing their faces as they glared at the soldiers invading their haunt.

T'Chaka couldn't help but grin at the sour faces of the Dutch locals. He had been enjoying himself immensely so far that afternoon, more than he had for a long time. Just for that one day, he had left his Panther uniform and equipment behind in his tent, and had ventured to the bar dressed as a mere private for the U.S. army. His unit was not so small that everyone already knew everyone else, and he was hoping that with the copious amounts of beer his men were consuming, he'd fit right in. He had been looking forward to a day where he wasn't treated like a King, and after all, one of the benefits of joining the Invaders had been the rare opportunity for him to observe the outside world firsthand. He was excited about the prospect of learning as much as he could about these foreign cultures, and there was only so much he could explore while in the intimidating guise of a monarch. But disguised as a normal soldier, he could mingle with the common men and interact with them on a much more personal level. Now if only he could finish this last beer, maybe he could find a group of soldiers to test his theory on...

But T'Chaka's slightly inebriated thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of half a dozen soldiers as they boisterously kicked open the pub's door and made their way to the bar. They had clearly already partaken in their fair share of alcohol and were probably ready for a break, but that didn't seem to stop them as they fairly assaulted the poor bartender in their enthusiasm, demanding more beer in the most riotous manner.

Personally, T'Chaka found the whole drunk lot of them mildly irritating, but he was in no position to judge, preferring instead to just sit by and let them be. After all, the men had earned their fun. And while this particular group excelled at being quite noisy and bothersome, they seemed mostly harmless overall. If the only negative consequence of the Allied visit to the small Dutch hamlet was a slightly flustered barkeep, then T'Chaka would consider it a good day.

But much to the Wakandan's chagrin, he soon found himself sitting in the line of fire.

"Hey you," barked the largest and loudest of the drunk soldiers. "Move it or lose it, willya?" he demanded, nodding to the stool T'Chaka was occupying.

Making sure to present as strong and calm a presence as possible, the king replied, "Easy friend, there are plenty of seats here for all. Now why don't you let me buy you a drink?"

"Ha! That's a laugh!" replied the stranger, who was a large, muscular, dirty blonde scrapper of a man with a sizable scar on his arm, the better to show off his well built frame. "A black man buying _me _a drink."

"I don't see that the color of my skin has anything to do with it," said T'Chaka, carefully maintaining his neutral tone.

Suddenly all mirth fell from the brute's voice, "You better not be sassin' me, _nigger. _You know damn well color's got _everything _to do with it. Now you better git on outta here if ya know what's good fer ya."

T'Chaka was shocked, rooted to the spot with surprise as the words of the white man sitting across from him played again and again through his mind, "...You better not be sassin' me, _nigger_..."

Wakandans were well aware of the status of colored men and women around the world. In fact, it would have been impossible for them _not _to be aware. With their satellite network orbiting the planet, and the added benefit of their sophisticated spy technology, there was little that went on that escaped the Wakandan's attention. Indeed, the plight of their African descended brothers and sisters was a cause of heartbreak for the citizens of Wakanda, but there was little they could do about it. Racism and discrimination of that level was such an alien concept in their culture and was regarded as so barbaric and ignorant, that such a crime was treated quite harshly in their country. After all, the nation of Wakanda had been surrounded by nothing but enemies for generations. All they had to rely on was each other. They were painfully aware that if they ever lost that kind of unity, than their country would fall.

As such, T'Chaka had never heard someone call him a nigger. No one in his country had ever had to endure that insult. And as the word sank in, so casually thrown about by the abrasive soldier sitting next to him, the full indignation, shock, and outrage associated with the word struck him. How _dare _he? How _dare _that ignorant coward demean him in such a way. T'Chaka was twice the man that drunkard would _ever _be. How _dare _he?!

"What's wrong, _boy_?" the brute asked in a mocking tone. "Cat gotcher tongue?" he sneered, his plastered cronies snickering along behind him.

_Boy_?! There it was. With one word T'Chaka had been made to feel like so much less of a man. With one word he had been made to feel powerless, he had been made to feel inferior. And because of what? Because he just happened to be born with brown skin? Did the pigmentation of his skin, just a random twist of DNA, make him so much less of a man than someone who just happened to have been born with white skin? Were they not all made of the same flesh and bone? Did they not all have the same feelings and emotions? Did they not all struggle with the same fears and problems and vices? What was the point? What was the point of all these illogical, utterly unnecessary distinctions between men? Wouldn't they all advance as a species so much faster, so much smoother and more peacefully if they could just learn to discard their inane prejudices and learn to work together, for the benefit of all? What the hell was wrong with this guy?

But all of this, all of these thoughts and feelings of anger and resentment, were expertly hidden under T'Chaka's unceasing mask of calm. He never allowed the brute's ignorant taunts to break his composure. It had suddenly become incredibly important to him to show the ignorant American that no matter what he said, no matter what he did, he could not rattle the King. He would prove by his actions that he was a better man than his antagonist. He would prove that he could rise above the mindless hatred he was presented with. He would prove that he was untouchable.

"_Friend_," T'Chaka said, allowing an almost imperceptible bite into his voice. "If you require this seat so badly, then by all means, you may claim it. _Clearly _it is far more important to you than it is to me."

"What d'ya mean by that, nigger?" the soldier snapped, a wicked grin crossing his face. "Don't you put on airs around _me._"

T'Chaka found that at that point, is was easier to simply ignore the ramblings of the drunkard rather than continue egging him on. He would enjoy his beer much more sitting in the comfort of one of the other booths the bar offered, he thought, as he grasped his mug and began walking away.

"Don't you turn yer back on me!" shouted the brute, his anger igniting into rage. "Damn it, _look _at me when I'm talkin' ta you!"

"I have no quarrel with you," T'Chaka said quietly, even though mentally he was trying hard not to let the ignorant bastard get under his skin. "I suggest we take this opportunity to part ways, friend."

"Ooh, sounds like fightin' words ta me, Cletus," sniggered one of the soldier's cronies as beer sloshed out of his mug.

"I think yer right," Cletus agreed with a malicious smile. "I think this one's a little too uppity fer my taste. It's time I teach this here negro boy a lesson."

"It's not too late to stop this," T'Chaka replied. "There is no need for us to travel down this dangerous road. You still have the chance to be the bigger man here."

"Oh, I am th' bigger man," the brute replied, laughing. "Now let's take this outside, coon, so's I c'n beat you good'n proper."

"I warn you, in my culture it is considered dishonorable for me to refuse a direct challenge," said T'Chaka, trying one last time to dissuade the drunkard. "You may find that you have bitten off more than you can chew."

"Big talk from th' colored boy," Cletus guffawed, shooing the Wakandan out the door of the bar and into the dismal, gray day outside. "Let's see if he c'n still talk so good without his teeth."

As Cletus stood directly in front of him, out in the muddy street in front of the bar under the drizzling sky, putting on a big show of stretching to get ready for the fight while his six friends formed a loose circle around them, T'Chaka took advantage of the momentary distraction to take stock of the situation. No matter how petty or pointless the battle was, his training taught him that having a clear understanding of his surroundings and his opponents often decided the outcome of any conflict before it even began, and this one was no different.

T'Chaka knew that even without his body armor and weapons, he could easily dispatch Cletus and his friends almost single-handedly. The fact that they were all quite drunk did nothing to help their chances, either. However, the King was resolved not to let himself sink to the level of his hateful opponent. He would not allow himself to be goaded into acting in a shameful or unbecoming way, into letting his anger dictate his actions. He would prove that he was the better man, but he would do it his way. An Invader should not descend to beating the stupid out of his unruly troops, that would be an abuse of his power after all.

However, T'Chaka couldn't help but betray a small grin, despite himself. It would be far more satisfying to teach this Neanderthal a lesson without resorting to any unnecessary violence. If he was lucky he might even be able to turn this into an educational experience for his inebriated friend.

But T'Chaka had no more time to think as Cletus charged him, egged on by the encouraging shouts of the riotous mob, "Think yer ready fer this, boy?"

The Wakandan couldn't deny that Cletus' first punch had power behind it. Fueled by rage and alcohol, the muscular brute certainly would have proven an intimidating foe for any normal man. Unfortunately, Cletus was not facing a normal man. To T'Chaka's expertly trained eye, while the punch was relatively strong-ish and quite passionate, it was also extremely slow and sloppy and quite easily read. Even if the Black Panther had not been expecting such a blow, in the field of battle, he still could have seen it coming a mile away.

With a quick, simply executed sidestep, the punch was easily dodged.

Cletus blinked with confusion as his friends gaped in shock around him. He had clearly not expected much resistance from the man he had mocked so hatefully. In fact, he had not even thought beyond that first punch, expecting to floor his opponent instantly and then retreat back to the bar after perhaps roughing the insolent jerk up a bit. He definitely hadn't expected his strike to miss completely, especially with such little effort on the colored man's part.

"Think yer smart, d'ya?" Cletus asked, growling with a deep anger. "Well let's see ya get lucky like that again, chump."

Enraged to the point of mad violence, and spurred on by his friends, who were now shouting so loudly that they had attracted a small crowd, Cletus lunged at his foe, attacking him with everything he had. The white man's fists flew through the air as fast as he could throw them, resulting in powerful blows that would have floored any normal enemy, ending the fight instantly.

But to the crowd's astonishment, T'Chaka easily dodged every last attack. The Panther's combat skills eclipsed poor Cletus', and without even breaking a sweat or breathing heavily, T'Chaka was able to avoid any contact whatsoever with his drunk adversary. He didn't even have to rely on any advanced techniques to achieve the spectacle. A quick duck here, a simple sidestep there, a slight twist in the right direction, and Cletus was left striking nothing but thin air. A hush soon fell over the crowd as it became apparent that Cletus, who was clearly trying his best and appeared to be one of the most physically intimidating soldiers anyone had ever seen, was completely outclassed. The little Dutch town had never seen a fight quite like this, and the crowd soon swelled to even greater numbers, regardless of the rainy chill of the day, as everyone realized that this contest had become something special.

"Hear me soldier, and hear me well," said T'Chaka in his composed voice, loud enough for the crowd to listen to every word. "Yes, my skin is black, and yours is white, but this makes me no better or worse than you. I have always considered black and white men to be equals, for we are all human. And no amount of physical violence or misplaced aggression on your part can ever do anything to change that."

Cletus had now become acutely aware of the large audience watching them, as the only sound that could now be heard was his ragged breathing, "You think...you can...make a fool...outta _me_...ya damn nigger?" he exclaimed, a primal, vicious rage boiling inside him. "I'll kill you! Ya hear? **I'll kill you!**"

Cletus rose from his crouching position, and in a flash, leaped at T'Chaka, his fist once again raised as a murderous passion had possessed his heart. But the Wakandan King was done playing games. He had made his point, he had said what he'd wanted to say, and now it was over. He would not allow this small, petty man to taint his day any longer.

As Cletus closed the distance between them and moved to strike, T'Chaka simply held up his hand, catching the blow easily within his palm. With a light slapping sound T'Chaka had effortlessly blocked Cletus' killing blow in the palm of his hand, and a gasp of amazement rose from the surrounding crowd.

For an instant, the entire village seemed to hold its breath, including Cletus. The astonished drunk looked from his fist, back to T'Chaka, and then back to his fist again, as he slowly withdrew it from his opponent's grasp with his mouth gaping open in disbelief.

Overcome with frustration and embarrassment, and too drunk to know how stupid he was being, Cletus tried one last time. Determined to not be made a fool of, he attacked T'Chaka again and again, summoning all his strength while shouting and screaming with a helpless fury loud enough for it to echo through the tiny town, as he attempted in vain to best his enemy.

But T'Chaka once again proved how useless Cletus' struggling was. Not even bothering to dodge Cletus' vain strikes, he instead began moving his hands with lightning speed to intercept each blow against his open palms. Again and again Cletus' fists harmlessly connected with the Wakandan's strong hands, as, almost too fast for the eye to see, he blocked every one of the soldier's maddened punches.

After almost a full minute of this, even Cletus was beginning to tell that it was useless, which infuriated him all the more. But now his energy was draining, and the ridiculous amount of beer he had consumed was catching up to him, and while T'Chaka was still effortlessly blocking his attacks, Cletus was already pushing himself to the limit.

Finally throwing a bad punch, the drunkard lost his balance, tripping over his own feet and falling face first into the shallow mud which the lightly sprinkling rain had created. There he lay, breathing hard and grimacing with exhaustion as his mud caked clothes clung against him. Cletus had never thought it would come to this. He could barely comprehend what was happening. After all, wasn't he better than the calm, collected black man who hadn't even broken a sweat and was now staring emotionlessly down at him? Could it be that the colored man had been right? Had his words contained any truth at all? Was it possible that _Cletus _could have been in the wrong? And why, after everything that Cletus had done to him, wasn't he fighting back? What was he missing?

"I am not going to hurt you," T'Chaka said, almost as if he could hear Cletus' thoughts. "I don't need to hurt you to make my point. But hear this: the Nazis threaten the entire world. They march to the drums of war and destruction, hoping to one day rule over every nation. They go to war in the name of their master race. They believe that their Aryan blood makes them naturally superior to all other peoples, and thus gives them the right of sovereignty over them. They believe that their blonde hair and blue eyes and Germanic lineage makes them better than you," he said, pointing at Cletus.

"And you, and you, and you," T'Chaka continued, pointing to several other people in the crowd.

"And especially me," the King finished, indicating himself. "But I am willing to bet that not once has any one of you ever felt inferior to a Nazi. Am I right? I am willing to bet that not one of you has ever felt like the color of your hair, or eyes, or skin, makes you any less human than they are."

"So tell me this," T'Chaka continued, staring down at his defeated foe and emanating an air of menace that no one in the crowd had ever felt before. "When you treat your African American brothers this way, how does that make you any different than a Nazi?"

Cletus was dumbstruck. Laying face first in the mud, completely exhausted and humiliated as he was, he felt just like he had been punched in the gut by the Wakandan's words. He'd never thought any of it like that. He'd just grown up thinking this way. He had never questioned his views of white and black people, that was just the way the world worked. He was just playing the part he had been born into, and the colored men were playing theirs. For the first time in his life, he felt helpless. He felt like he didn't know anything at all anymore, like the world was a different place somehow and he was learning to see it through a new lens.

"Now," said T'Chaka, his tone still low, but without the intimidating infliction from before. "Are you going to continue laying in the mud, or are you going to get up and apologize by buying the next round of beers?"

Cletus was thunderstruck, "Uh...whuh...I, I guess I'm buyin' th' next round of beers?" he managed to stutter as his brain tried to comprehend this strange turn of events.

"Good answer," the King replied, extending a hand to help his former antagonist up. "May I suggest that you clean yourself up first? You look awful."

The rest of the day was spent inside the bar as the whole town gathered to hear T'Chaka's story of the fight. His combat prowess had instantly become legend in the small, sleepy village, and he had already been something of a curiosity in that region of the world, because many of the Dutch locals had never seen a black man before.

After Cletus and his friends had bought the next two rounds, and T'Chaka had been asked how he'd learned to fight like that, he had been forced to explain that he was in fact the Black Panther of the famous Invaders. A roar of exclamation rose through the bar at the realization that a celebrity was in their midst and T'Chaka was immediately assaulted with dozens of questions. (Cletus nearly fainted when he realized that he had insulted and attacked an Invader, and it can be said that he lost a good number of friends that day.)

T'Chaka was used to being treated like a King, but rarely had he been exposed to such a level of celebrity. The party went on well into the night, the awkward and somewhat dangerous atmosphere of the early afternoon replaced with a jolly, easygoing mood. T'Chaka and his men were even taught some of the local drinking songs, even though the language was largely alien to them, giving the old out of tune piano in the corner some much needed exercise.

But as the long hours of the evening dragged on, and the bar began to empty and the shadows began to lengthen (much to the relief of the barkeep, who had made more money that day than he'd ever dreamed of but by now was utterly exhausted) soon T'Chaka and Cletus were two of the only people left inside.

"I'm...I'm sorry, Mr. T'Chaka, fer th' way I treated you before," Cletus said after a long pause as he stared into the bottom of his mug. "Never thought I'd ever be apologizin' to a nig...I mean a black man..." he muttered into his beer.

"I try not to think of people in terms of color," T'Chaka replied, finishing his last beer before heading back to his tent. "You and I are not black and white people...we're just people."

"I'm gonna have a hard time sellen' that back home..." Cletus admitted, thoughtfully.

"I don't know if everyone is ready for this kind of thinking Cletus, but it's nevertheless long overdue," replied T'Chaka, rising from his seat and getting ready to leave. "It only takes one person to change the world. One person with a new way of thinking, a new way of looking at things, and he can inspire others to think the same way, who in turn inspire still more people, and before you know it, the world has started to change for the better."

"Who knows," T'Chaka finished, turning one last time to Cletus. "Maybe during our children's time, or our children's children, occurrences like what happened between you and me today will be merely a thing of the past."

Cletus wordlessly raised his glass to that, realizing that despite the color of his skin, he had never met anyone like T'Chaka...and he probably never would again. Cletus was not one to give his respect away easily, but he knew that he would always remember that day with pride, the day he had met T'Chaka, the Black Panther.


	34. Chapter 34

Warning: This chapter contains violent and possibly disturbing imagery.

The Age of Marvels:

Chapter Thirty Four

Captain America

and the

Invaders

Part Thirty Four

_**During the darkest days of World War II, America stood united against the threat of the Nazi Germany war machine. Our Greatest Generation sacrificed everything in order to stem the forces of oppression from overrunning our very planet, led under the fearless banner of the greatest hero of our time, Captain America. Inspired by his courageous example, and with the aid of his misfit band of Invaders, Captain America led the forces of freedom to victory, changing his world forever.**_

New Jersey

The home of Mr. Barnes

Colonel Fury leaned back in the couch, deep in thought, "It's hard to believe in this day and age that T'Chaka ever had to put up with intolerance like that. Now you'd be court marshaled for that kind of behavior."

"Well, it was a very different time back then," Mr. Barnes conceded, nursing his cup of coffee. "But things haven't changed as much as you might think. I hear about that kind of bigotry all the time on the news when it comes to equal rights for homosexuals, women, and other ethnic minorities. How are they being treated any different than the African American soldiers of the second World War?"

"Touche," Fury responded with a smile. "But believe me, we're working on that. When it comes to acceptance and tolerance of others, real change always takes time, but we'll get there."

Their conversation was interrupted by an impassioned bellow from the second floor, "Matthew Alexander Barnes, you get out of bed THIS INSTANT! You only have twenty minutes to get ready for school, young man, and if I have to come in there and drag you out of bed by your feet than so help me..."

"Is that your grandkid?" Fury asked, not able to hide a smile at the antics from upstairs.

"Matt's a pistol," the old man chuckled. "He's always drivin' his poor mom up the wall in the morning before school. He knows just how far he can push her before he gets into trouble."

"Ahh, where was I?" Barnes asked, suddenly realizing that they had wandered off topic. "Oh yes, but T'Chaka wasn't the only one who had to face challenges while we were separated. During a mission with his squad, Logan found himself drawn into a nightmare the likes of which no one should ever have to endure..."

September, 1944

From the Journal of Private Griggs

Don't know if anyone will ever read this, but when you've got a story to tell like mine, it doesn't much matter, does it? I ain't never been too much for reading and writing, but sometimes you just got to get it out, you know? Besides, when you're marching through endless forests and scrambling for cover under German fire, sometimes its hard to think about life after the war, and if I don't make it...well...let's just say I'll feel better knowing that someone out there knows what happened here.

Back home in Gadsdon Alabama, I was Tim Griggs, Benny Griggs' boy, but out here in the rain and the chill and the smoke, I'm just plain old Griggs. I'm just a name people shout, a body with a gun. Out here on the front lines all the names and faces blur together and we all become just one more means to an end. It all becomes about the objective, and everything else fades away. That's the way it has to be. It's the only way to keep yourself sane out here, when every moment could be your last the only way to keep going is to distance yourself from everyone around you. That is...until your pal right next to you gets blown away in an instant, a painful reminder that we're all too human, and everything that we were could be lost forever as your body crumples to the ground without anything inside and your whole life gets reduced to just another statistic. After something like that, it becomes all too easy to blend into the uniform and leave the rest of you behind in Alabama...and that's how I became Griggs...just Griggs.

Of course, all that changed when our new commanding officer showed up. I think it's safe to say that nobody had seen anyone like Commander Ronin before. As soon as he introduced himself, the whole company started whispering and staring. We'd all heard the rumors that the replacement CO was one of the legendary Invaders, the heroes of Normandy, but seeing one of them in the flesh was something else.

None of us knew what to make of the strange little man. I'll give him this, he was one hairy, tough looking, son of a gun. Sure he was shorter than almost anyone in the squad, and had a wild haircut that would have given my poor mamma a conniption, but you could tell just by meeting the man that he had seen his fair share of the war. Don't take this the wrong way or nothing, because I don't swing that way, but he had some of the biggest damn muscles I've ever seen! I mean, if the man survived D-Day with just that funny little sword he carries around, then he's got my respect and that's no lie.

But that ain't the half of what made Ronin such an odd egg, if you catch my drift. He claimed he was Canadian, but he sure didn't talk or dress like any Canadian trooper I've ever crossed. He had a weird way of speech that I ain't never heard before, like he picked up a foreign dialect from somewhere, like a cold you just can't shake. And more than that, even if nothing else tipped you off, you still couldn't miss that crazy uniform of his.

It was like something straight out of one of them history books you read at the schoolhouse. He would just walk around, proud as could be, in some kind of blue and yellow samurai's robes. Now don't that just beat all? And even more strange, he even went into battle with the darn thing on!

You'd think that something like that would drag the little man down, but you'd be wrong. After seeing Ronin in action, you'd understand why he didn't even need a gun to fight. That samurai was a soldier like I'd never seen before...a real warrior type, you know? He would charge into a firefight, brave and bold as he could be, sword drawn and a-hollerin' enough to beat the band, and in a flash he'd be on the enemy, and then a few seconds later, after the screaming was done, there he'd be, covered in blood and gasping for breath, with half the Nazi force dead at his feet.

Yup, Ronin was a real life saver. At first I wondered how he never got hit, taking down as many Germans as he did during every battle, but then one day I saw it. He had just ambushed a small squad of the enemy from behind, and I saw with my own eyes how they pegged him in the chest a couple times. At first I panicked, I mean, if our CO got taken out, our unit would fall apart without a leader and we'd be sitting ducks, but the samurai just kept on going! He didn't even bat an eye as chunks of flesh got blown off him, he just kept swinging that sword of his, mowing down the enemy, growling and carrying on like some kind of wild beast as his blood spurted across the battlefield.

Now I didn't get a real good look at him that time, but before long he was acting good as new and the squad moved on like nothing had happened. And I wasn't the only one who knew something was up. Stories began circulating all throughout the unit that something was screwy with the commander. We all had heard the stories of the Invaders, we all thought we knew what they were capable of, but we were wrong. I don't know what kept this guy going no matter what hit him, but it was downright spooky. Spooky as hell.

But that slowly changed as the days turned to weeks and the weeks turned to months. Our unit's job was to follow the bomber raids as they flew deeper and deeper into German territory. The B-17's would hit a target, usually a Nazi military base or outpost, and then we would follow and mop things up once the enemy had been weakened. We all thought it would be a cushy job, but when they assigned Ronin as our CO we should have guessed otherwise. We were dead wrong.

It didn't take a genius to catch onto our brilliant military strategy, effective as it might be. And say what you will about them Nazis, but they ain't stupid. The deeper we penetrated into their territory, the more the Germans began developing strategies to save their soldiers from the bombing raids. Underground bunkers and other such protective measures became more and more common as we advanced, and while sometimes the enemy would just up and surrender at the mere sight of us, we encountered others that had barely been scratched by the bombers, and still others who were organized enough to set traps and ambushes for any unfortunate Allied units who happened to stumble across the pile of rubble they'd once called home.

Those were dark days all right, but at least we had Ronin by our side. I don't know what would have happened to us if he hadn't been around to save our butts. Strange and eccentric as he was, our soft spoken and reserved CO could hoof it from one side of the battlefield to the other and save a dozen men by slicing the Germans to ribbons in the blink of an eye.

What's more, it was next to impossible to surprise the man. I swear sometimes it was almost like he could _smell _danger. We'd be marching through the woods, or a town, or hell, just down the road, and he'd halt the entire company and just stand there almost like he was sniffing the air, or listening to something that the rest of us couldn't hear, before issuing new orders and dashing away to scout out what was ahead. And the craziest thing of all was that he was always right! Sure enough, as soon as we got to know Ronin a little better all the rumors and fear were forgotten. He might dress a little funny, but he cared about each and every one of his soldiers, knew us all by name, and by gum, before we knew it he'd become one of us. As far as any of us was cocnerned, he was our hero.

Unfortunately, his sterling reputation was permanently shattered for me one day when we were on a scouting mission through a small occupied village that had just been bombed, and I saw the masterless Ronin for what he really was.

It was safe to say that the village had seen better days. The bombers had really done a number on this one, like the rest of the war had when the German front lines had retreated through the area, no doubt pillaging every scrap of food and supplies that they could get their hands on during the process. After all, survival of the fittest was what those Nazi bastards were all about. If those peasants weren't strong enough to protect their own belongings, they didn't deserve to have them in the first place. Just makes you wonder, now that the Nazis are losing the war, how they like the taste of their own philosophic medicine when the boot's on the other goose stepping foot.

Anyway, the whole place was a wreck, but it looked safe enough for us. I mean, what kraut in his right mind would try to ambush us in a bombed out pile of rubble like this sorry town? On the other hand, we weren't born yesterday, and it was always better to be safe than sorry, so that's what we did, we played it safe.

The village was small, but it was fairly spread out, so Ronin did what any good CO would have done, and ordered the majority of the company to back off while the squads that specialized in scouting went in to secure the area. Naturally, that meant it was time to put my neck on the line and do my job. I only felt that unique brand of fear that bubbles up and twists your stomach into a knot for a moment before I reflexively swallowed it back down again. Fear like that you gotta show who's boss lickety split before it gets a hold on you, because once it really sets its roots in, the only way you're going home is in a body bag. I've seen it happen to plenty of good soldiers, and even though I knew all too well what little control I had out there on the battlefield, I could at least make sure that I didn't go out like that, like a coward.

I was ready for our basic maneuver, divide into small groups and quietly and quickly sweep the area, until I got thrown for a loop by the Commander's calm voice, "Private Griggs, you're with me."

Yeahbuh_whuh_?" was almost what I said as I suddenly found myself giving the samurai my full attention.

The other men only threw us furtive glances as they quickly scurried away towards the town. They were beginning to sense that something wasn't right here, and they wanted no part of it. It wasn't that they were afraid of Ronin, because by that point he had become quite popular among us soldiers, it had more to do with the fact that our commander usually did his scouting alone, and they figured that if something was so dangerous that it required someone like him to have back up, then it might as well be old Griggs in the line of fire rather than their own skins.

But despite all the thoughts and questions rolling around in that brain of mine, I found the words that came out of my mouth were the same as always, "Yes sir, right away sir," I replied, throwing a salute despite myself.

If only I had known what I was getting myself into.

Most of the village was located in what remained of a small clearing which had been eked out of the body of the forest long ago, and it was that area which most of the scouting parties were going. Unfortunately, Ronin and I were heading in a different direction, which was all the more reason to be nervous, I reasoned, while I clutched my gun with my fingers so firmly that my bones started to ache.

When you're out in the thick of things and facing down enemy fire so loud and heavy that you're convinced that even if you do manage to survive, you'd still have a lifetime of therapy to pay for, the only things in the whole world you have to depend on is the guy to your right, the guy to your left, and the gun in your hand. And since the guys to your right and left tend to die on you without warning, usually the gun seems the most dependable option. Your gun is your life, and as I trotted away at the heels of the calm and collected samurai, who's features betrayed an intense degree of concentration that I'd never seen before as we made our way through the trees, I felt a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach at the depressing thought of how truly interconnected my life and my gun had become.

But these thoughts were cut short as Ronin suddenly stopped, holding up his hand in the unmistakable signal for silence. As I shuffled up beside him, striving with all my heart to remain so quiet that I hardly dared to breathe, I finally saw what had caught the commander's attention.

I still have no idea how the heck Ronin knew it had been out there, but the barn I made out through the trees was still about a hundred yards away. It was isolated enough from the town that it had probably been hidden from the bomber's sight by the canopy of trees above, but was still close enough that they would have definitely felt it when the village was destroyed. Luck must have been on the hairy CO's side when he decided to come out here, because I sure as heck wouldn't have wanted to recon that place without any backup. No siree.

The structure consisted of a large barn, located in front of the main house, which had become clearly dilapidated with the passage of time. Standard procedure demanded that we investigate the house first, but Ronin was headed right for that barn. Somehow he knew something was in there, and even though it made no sense to me at first, before too long I could hear it as well.

It was the sound of someone crying.

We crept up to the barn as silent as the grave, crouching just beneath the window next to the main door. I'm sure the large, low window used to have glass or shutters or something, but being located in a war zone, buildings have a habit of misplacing those kinds of unnecessary commodities. Anyway, the important thing was what I could hear going on within the barn. There were two people inside, both of them just boys, one of which was trying and failing to hold back tears, and both of them were speaking in heavily accented German.

Now if you're a civilian, I can just hear your whiny little voices, "But Griggs, if they're speaking German, how could you understand them?"

Well if you knew anything about how the Allied military works, little civilian, you'd know that most scout troops are trained to understand at least the basic lingo of the enemy. Wouldn't be much of a reconnaissance trooper if I couldn't understand a blamed thing the Nazi's said, would I? In fact, it was rumored that one of the reasons Ronin was assigned to us was that he understood German as well. So there.

"Niklas, please...you don't have to do this!" pleaded the boy who was crying.

"Just shut the hell up, Steffen," said the other one, Niklas, hatefully. "You have never been one to believe in the cause. You never even wanted to be here at all! You shame the Deutsches Jungvolk with your cowardice. And now, with your death, you will do what you never could in life, and serve the Fuhrer with your dying breath!"

The air caught in my throat with the thought of what was about to happen. How old could these kids possibly be? And what was the Deutsches Jungvolk? Then I heard it, the cocking of a gun, and I knew that something horrible was about to happen. After all the atrocity and madness I'd seen in this war, I never thought I would bear witness to a child ending another child's life. But what could I do? I had only a fraction of a second to act before that gun went off, and the weeping, pathetic child's life would be ended forever, executed like a dog alone in a dark, dingy barn, his body lying forgotten on the hay strewn floor until somebody, maybe months later, happened upon what remained of the nameless boy.

But while those thoughts, emphasized by my own sense of helplessness, flashed through my head, Ronin sprang into action. I don't know what kind of training he must have gone through before he joined the military, but that man's reflexes were like a cat. Before I even had the time to stand up he had already sprung to his feet, leaped through the window, tackled the gun toting boy, Niklas, to the ground, and was now holding him in a choke-hold, not forceful enough to harm the kid, but certainly enough to keep him immobilized.

As soon as I could I had scrambled through the window myself, as only a shocked, ill prepared soldier could, and helped the other kid, Steffen, to his feet, and gave him a cursory examination to make sure he was okay as he coughed back his desperate sobs. Both children examined us with wild, surprised eyes, their gazes lingering on Ronin (not that I blamed them), trying to decide whether or not we were threats.

"Don't worry, kid. We're Allied soldiers, we ain't gonna hurt you," I said in a reassuring tone. "Uh...do you speak any English at all?"

Steffen, wiping the tears from his grimy face, nodded, "Yes, we are all being taught the English, but only the...um...small little bit."

"Okay, that's good enough," I said, trying to flash an encouraging smile. "I'm Private Griggs and this is..."

"You may call me Logan," the Commander said, still in a quiet, calm voice. "Do not worry, you are safe now."

Logan? The CO had a first name? I was shocked. Everyone knew about Captain America, the leader of the Invaders. The story of how little scrawny Steve Rogers had been turned into a super soldier by good old American science, and through nothing but sheer willpower and determination had become the symbol of a nation was famous across the world by now. But the rest of his teammates were still something of a mystery. And who could blame them? To us, to all the American soldiers, Captain America outshone all the other Invaders. He was an inspiration to us all. But the thought of Ronin having a first name just made him seem so...human, so normal. The concept would take some getting used to.

"What happened here, kid," I asked, forcing myself back to the present.

"Thank God for you," was all Steffen could say, throwing his arms around me and hugging me as tightly as he could while his pal glared at us from a few feet away. "Thank you, thank you, for saving my life!"

Frankly, I didn't know what the heck to do. I was still having trouble wrapping my head around the situation we'd stumbled upon. I mean, having caught a good eyeful of them, these kids couldn't have been more than thirteen years old. What could have possibly driven them to that kind of behavior?

"I am sorry," Steffen apologized, getting a hold of himself and taking a step back. "I am so lucky, so lucky. It is hard."

"Take your time," Logan said, tightening his grip around Niklas who attempted fruitlessly to slip away from his grasp.

Finally Steffen looked at us earnestly, "Thank you for saving me," he said once again. "But you do not knowing where you are. This village, we are the only people still here. The Deutsches Jungvolk are all that is left, hiding here on this farm."

"What are the Deutsches Jungvolk?" Logan finally managed to ask.

"No, don't tell them!" Logan's captive, Niklas, shouted out in German. "You coward! How dare you betray your own people!"

Despite his earlier fear, Steffen found it in himself to spit at the ground in front of the other boy, "Stop it, Niklas. I was never one of you. I will never _be_ one of you, you monsters!"

After a moment he composed himself, turning back to us, "The Deutsches Jungvolk are a part of the Hitlerjugend...the Hitler Youth. We make up the younger section of the organization, the Deutsches Jungvolk, known as the German Youth."

"I have heard of this Hitler Youth," Logan replied. "It's an organization almost like a twisted mirrored version of the Boy Scouts, who's objective is to take the children of Germany and mold them into an entire generation of fanatical Nazi storm troopers. The Deutsches Jungvolk must be the indoctrination branch of the program."

"They're junior Nazis..." I said, eyes widening with realization. In boot camp they train you to be ready for anything, but there was no way I could have been ready for this. This was twisted, warped...wrong.

Steffen nodded, his expression distressed, "Yes, but it is not being my fault," he fearfully explained. "The Boy Scouts, they were outlawed and replaced by the Hitlerjugend. At first it was just being the more older boys, the ones who could work and fight. But after a time, the younger ones were encouraged to join, even the girls. Soon, every child over the age of nine was required by law to join, or we would be taken from our homes and our parents would be executed, sent to the gallows...or even the camps. No one is safe anymore."

He looked up at us with a face that was different than that of any other child I had ever seen in the States. He had lost something, something I couldn't quite define. Instead of the innocence and wonder I had seen in the eyes of so many children back home, his eyes held only sorrow, and pain, and dread. He had seen too much. He had experienced a kind of terror and hatred that had changed his life forever. Even though he couldn't have been more than eleven or twelve years old, he wasn't a kid, not anymore. The Nazis had taken that from him, and he could never get it back.

"At the beginning, the Deutsches Jungvolk were only concerned with education and physical exercise," Steffen explained in a hushed tone, his eyes losing some of their focus as his mind traveled back in time. "We were to be learning about the Fuhrer, about the glory of the Third Reich, about what it meant to belong to the superior Aryan race. We were made to pour over the Nazi doctrines again and again, memorizing every word so that it was drilled into our brains forever. This was all that mattered."

"They were brainwashed," I murmured in horrified astonishment. "Those Nazi bastards took these kids and brainwashed them so this was all they'd ever know."

Logan just stared ahead with a sad look on his face, his eyes having lost their light as if somewhere inside him he knew a little something of what this poor child had gone through.

"But things soon changed," Steffen went on, his voice rising with passion. "At first we would be made to exercise outside only a little every day, but the war, we were no longer winning it, and the homeland needed new soldiers who were better, tougher...meaner. So that is what we became."

"The Hitlerjugend, the older boys, they would come and 'supervise' us. We stopped reading the doctrines, and focused only on the training. Only the strong survive, only the strong survive," Steffen repeated, his voice cracking with emotion. "Those that did not perform well, the weak or the slow, would be punished, punished again and again, until the weakness was beaten out of them."

Steffen choked back a sob, his voice catching in his throat as he went on, "We were no longer children, we were being trained to be soldiers. The Reich needed men, and they were running out of them. The older ones, the Hitlerjugend, they were being called into action, sent to the front lines by the thousands. We were all that was left."

Now the boy slumped to his knees, holding his head in his hands and shaking slowly from side to side as images flashed through his mind faster than he could handle them, "We were being trained, trained at using the weapons. Guns, knives, explosives, anything that we could get our hands on. The Allied scum were advancing, and we were expected to hold them back no matter what, or our families would pay the price. The Third Reich must survive, even if we did not. And if we did not perform our duties as expected, if we were not strong enough, than we would be tortured, broken down, and rebuilt into something more useful to the Reich, until we were."

"I...I can't believe I'm hearing this," I couldn't help but stutter. "What kind of people could brainwash and torture their own children?"

"Quiet Griggs," Logan said softly. "Let the little one speak."

"And things then became even worse," Steffen continued, his voice a ghost of what it once was. "The front lines, they were getting too close. The village had to be evacuated...but not abandoned. The people, our families, my parents, were ordered to flee, escorted away by armed convoy, but we, the Deutsches Jungvolk...we were ordered to stay behind."

"You bastard! You coward!" Niklas shouted, bursting with rage from within Logan's iron grip. "You would rather retreat, still clinging to your whore mother's breast, than fight for your country! It is filth like you that will lose us this war, you abschaum!"

"There was no one left," Steffen continued with a broken voice. "No one left to fight for the homeland. We had to stay behind to defend the village. I had to take up arms as I watched my parents being dragged away by the soldiers. My mother, screaming and weeping as the men carried her away, knowing I would...I would never see her again..."

And with that, Steffen broke down. As he collapsed on the ground, curled in a ball and weeping into the dirt, I did all I could as I knelt beside him, placing my hand on his shoulder in a comforting gesture that was all too shallow. I knew that after all he'd lost, nothing a stranger like me could do would mean anything. But at least I was there, and that had to count for something.

"Steffen is a worm," Niklas growled from behind his scowl. "We all knew that he did not have what it took to survive in our glorious Fuhrer's world. He is too soft."

An unquenchable rage replaced Steffen's tears at the other boy's remark, "My Father is twice the man your insane Fuhrer will ever be!" he screamed with fury. "And Father says that our people, any people, can never be truly strong as long as they blindly follow the words of a power mad tyrant! He says that a truly great people must have the courage to think for themselves, and that can never happen when we live in a society where it is against the law to ask questions! He says that a government should exist for the people, that the people should not exist for the government, and that until we accept responsibility for our own actions, and stop trying to build our nation only by oppressing others, we will never be strong, only ignorant and hateful."

"Your father is a fool," Niklas simply replied, glaring across the barn at the other boy.

"I did not want to join the ranks of the Deutsches Jungvolk," Steffen explained, his anger burnt out as he looked at us with an pleading eyes. "Everyone my age was forced to, and now...I will never see my family again. Please don't hurt me. I am so, so sorry!"

In an effort to keep the kid from bursting into tears all over again, I said the only thing I knew to say, "Don't worry, kid. You're with us now. We're not gonna hurt you. Just you wait, we'll find yer mom and dad again before you know it."

"You...you really think they're alive?" Steffen asked, a note of hope in his voice that I had not heard before.

"You bet!" I said, giving him a big, encouraging thumbs up and ruffling his hair. "They ain't soldiers like the guys we fight, and we aren't real big on killing civilians. Don't worry, they'll be fine."

"That is what you think, American swine!" Niklas raged, his eyes wide with mad passion as he wrenched himself away from Logan's unprepared grip in one fluid motion. "The Third Reich will march over the bodies of the unworthy, be they cowardly traitors or weak foreign chattel!"

Before Logan or I could do anything, the crazed Niklas had ripped his shirt off, revealing a thin jacket underneath with a device on it that I didn't recognize. Good thing that Logan did though, because if it wasn't for him both me and the boy would have died that day.

"It's a bomb!" the Commander shouted, immediately moving in our direction. "The boy has strapped himself with a bomb!"

I was rooted to the spot, paralyzed with fear. I could see Niklas reaching for his detonator as if in slow motion, a maddened, wicked grin spreading from ear to ear. Acting on reflex, I pushed Steffen to the ground and curled my body around the boy in a desperate bid to save him from the blast. I may not survive what was coming, I thought, but at least _he _might. As the moments slipped away and the world slowed around me, images of my family and the life I'd left behind flashed through my mind...until something else caught my attention.

Suddenly Niklas had been shoved aside, a curse escaping his lips as Logan sprang into view. I could see him scream at me to get down, but it was as if I couldn't hear his voice in my panicked state of mind. Before I knew it, Logan had crouched in front of me, protecting both me and the boy using his body as a shield, as we all closed our eyes in preparation for what was coming.

My world was blown apart in the blast that instantly claimed the life of the insane German boy Niklas. I saw Logan howl in pain as the explosion knocked him clear off his feet and across the room. I felt the wave of force rip me away from my CO, sending me spiraling across the floor as I lost my grip on Steffen and cried out in agony. Everything became fire and smoke as I rolled to a stop, colliding painfully with something hard and solid that knocked me completely unconscious.

Mercifully, I got the sense that I had been only out for a few seconds, but when I next opened my eyes my vision was blurry and my ears were still ringing. The smoke was beginning to clear as I gazed around the room, barely aware of anything but the pain accompanied with each breath and the waves of nausea which persistently plagued me.

Nothing remained of poor Niklas except a sickening crimson splatter on the floor where he had stood and the charred black powder of the explosives to mark what would have to pass for his grave. I saw Steffen behind me, groaning and holding his head as he managed to stumble to his feet. I guess the Commander and I had done our jobs right if the boy could get back up so soon after such a blast, but where the heck was Logan?

"Let me help you up," Steffen offered, stumbling over to me and lending what assistance he could as I slowly staggered into a standing position. "We must get out of here. The others will have heard the explosion."

"Others?" I asked, my still ringing brain struggling to comprehend the boy's words. "What others?"

Steffen was losing patience as he led me slowly through the barn, "The other Deutsches Jungvolk. They will not be long now. Hurry!"

I shook my head stubbornly, "No, we can't leave without Commander Logan. Where is he?"

"I am...cough...over here," came a raspy voice from the far corner of the barn.

What Steffen and I saw when we turned to face the Commander was an sight I had never imagined before. Logan lay sprawled out on the floor, facing the ceiling, his robes hanging from him in blood soaked tatters, his body literally blown to pieces. I felt my lunch catch in my throat as I saw that the left side of his torso, from his shoulder all the way to his thigh, was hanging from the rest of him, some of his parts connected only by the thinnest string of flesh or sinew, leaving his innards exposed to the acrid air and splayed out on the floor.

I could hear Steffen as he began retching behind me, my mind racing as I tried to think of any possible way to save my CO. I'll confess, at that point I didn't know what the heck to do. The only thing I could think as shock began to set in was that Logan was a dead man. I had seen men succumb to only a fraction of the damage that Logan had just taken. There was no way he would survive.

And then I saw the most miraculous, and disgusting, thing of my entire life.

Logan tried to force a smile upon his scarred and bleeding face, "Don't worry, Griggs. I'll be fine," he said, using his trembling arm to scoop what remained of his stomach back into his body.

I first noticed it when staring at his face, wondering how he could smile in such a desperate situation. The large scar that had been ripped across his features...could it slowly be getting smaller? I blinked in disbelief, wondering if it was the shock setting in, but yes, it was definitely shrinking! And it wasn't just his face, all over Logan's shattered frame, his body seemed to be slowly regenerating itself, almost as if it was stitching its own flesh back together, inch my inch.

I was completely dumbstruck, just standing there and watching, fighting back the waves of overwhelming nausea at the sight that met my uncomprehending eyes. Logan grunted and growled, clearly dealing with crippling levels of agony, while his body seemed to regrow and replace the organs and flesh that had been torn away. Muscles slowly intertwined themselves around his bones and skin seemed to sprout from the surface of those muscles, almost like mold, before my very eyes. It was the most morbid, grotesque spectacle I could ever imagine, a nightmarish visage that I still fear I may never be able to put behind me. Yet in only a matter of minutes, Logan had miraculously recovered enough that he was capable of sitting up and flashing a tentative grin as his flesh began gradually encircling the gaping hole in his chest.

I tried to say something, anything, to my CO, but all I managed was to stutter, "That was...that was..."

"That, Private Griggs, is the reason why I am an Invader," Logan said in as soothing a voice as he could muster, while he stretched his neck from side to side and snapped his bones back into place. "Before you ask, no, I am not immortal, nor am I any kind of demon or monster. Instead, my body is possessed of an inexplicable healing factor which allows me to quickly recover from almost any injury."

My response was an eloquently expressed, "Uuhhhhhhh..."

Logan ignored me, instead grabbing my hand and with a deep and painful grunt, he pulled himself to his feet, "You did not think that I earned my place on the Invaders with only the aid of my good looks, did you?"

The blank stare I gave in response clearly did not impress my Commander.

"I knew I should have left the jokes to James," Logan muttered under his breath. "I must have lost my sense of humor back in Canada."

Now that Logan's body had almost completely healed, (only several moderately large, nasty scars were left to show that he had been caught in the explosion at all) he suddenly turned back to business, "Snap out of it, Griggs, Uncle Sam doesn't pay you to stand around gawking all day. We have work to do," he ordered, shoving me back to reality.

"Yes sir," I responded automatically; there would be time to process what I had just witnessed when the mission was done.

"It's too late!" Steffen exclaimed, looking out the window to the other end of the barn. "They're here!"

As quickly as we could while nursing our wounds, Logan and I joined the boy where he stood at the other end of the barn. Peeking outside we saw a large crowd of children, all Steffen's age or even younger, pouring out from the adjacent farm house. My heart sank in my rattled chest as I noticed each one was wearing the same uniform that Niklas had worn, and still worse, they were all carrying military grade weapons. Even more impressive, they were advancing towards us in coordinated, organized ranks. These weren't just any ordinary kids, they were the Hitler Youth, and they were coming for us.

"Holy shit!" I exclaimed in a strained whisper, ducking back below the window and clutching my rifle in my blood soaked and trembling hands.

There had to have been almost two dozen of those little brainwashed brats, all armed to the teeth, and if Niklas had been any indication, they weren't to be taken lightly. We were going to die, I just knew it. There were only three of us after all, a boy, a frightened and injured soldier, and an equally wounded freak of nature. We would be no match for them, and there was no way we could hold them at bay long enough for reinforcements to arrive and save us. This was the end of the line.

"Calm yourself, Griggs," Logan instructed harshly. "Steffen, are these the other members of the Deutsches Jungvolk you warned us about?"

Steffen nodded, nervous sweat pouring from his brow, "Yes sir, under the command of Sergent Lukas Bader. They will not stop until they have killed us all!"

"Do not worry," Logan said, smiling as he put a reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder. "I promise we'll make it out of this."

Then turning to me as I crouched shivering on the floor, he muttered softly, "Griggs, cover me. I'm going out there and I need you to watch my back."

I tentatively turned around and poked my head over the windowsill. I could see the boys slowly and cautiously advancing across the spacious yard towards the barn, marching smartly in their uniforms, firearms held in their tiny hands, their incredibly young faces eerily devoid of any emotion. Then I glanced over at Steffen, who was just as terrified as I was, his blood and tear streaked face constantly moving from me, to Logan, and then outside to the boys who had slowly been transformed from his friends into stormtroopers, and something snapped inside of me.

Somewhere within Steffen I could clearly see the little redheaded boy who used to sit beside me during church every Sunday morning. When I looked at the brainwashed German kids outside, it was like I could almost recognize my own nieces and nephews. In their faces I could picture the kids who used to play down at the schoolhouse every afternoon as I walked home from work. Something in them dredged up memories of myself and my little sister chasing each other around the woods for hours during those long summer months of my youth.

These weren't soldiers, these were just kids. No matter what they were dressed like or what was going on in their heads, they were still only children. Could they really be held responsible for what they were doing? How could we murder children in cold blood? It just wasn't right.

"I...I can't," I said with a quavering voice. "I can't fire on these kids, Commander. It's murder...it's wrong..."

"You listen to me, Griggs," Logan snarled with sudden ferocity. "There's only one way out of here, and it's through the front door, and if we don't work together, we're not going to make it! Do you hear me?"

I don't know if it was the shock, or just the horror of the situation and everything we'd just been through, but even though my ears were hearing Logan's words, my brain just wasn't processing them, "I can't...I can't murder kids..." was all I could murmer as I willed my hands to pick up my gun in self-defense, but my body simply wouldn't listen to me.

Logan cursed as he looked back out the window, realizing at that point that I was a lost cause. The Deutsches Jungvolk were alarmingly close by now, and were starting to separate into two squads in order to completely surround the only way in or out of the barn, the better to pick us off one by one. I could see their commander behind them, a large, portly, cruel looking man with an elaborate mustache, carrying a pistol and a stern expression on his face. I knew that if something wasn't done immediately, we would be past the point of no return and none of us would be leaving that barn alive. But despite what my brain kept telling me, I still could not bring myself to fire on those kids.

In any war you have to do things to survive that disgust and horrify you. Things that you never thought you could ever do, things that eat away at your soul and change you from the man you were, into the man you're going to have to spend the rest of your life learning to live with. Over time, you gradually begin to accept deeper and deeper levels of depravity, explaining them away as necessary for your own survival, knowing somewhere inside that piece by piece, you are losing more of yourself to the war every day.

However, every soldier has a point where they're no longer willing to accept the sacrifices necessary for survival. Deep inside, every soldier has a line that no matter what, their soul is not willing to cross. I've seen a lot of good men reach that point...and most of them don't survive the experience. The lucky ones get shipped home, wounded or worse, their spirit all used up and then discarded like an old carton of cigarettes, no longer useful to the military at all. A shell of the person they once were.

Maybe I had reached that point myself. Maybe I had given all that I could give, made every sacrifice I could make to the ravenous hunger of the war, and now I had nothing left. Maybe I was just too scared, at the end of the day a coward just like everyone else. Maybe I could no longer cope with the horrors and revelations and miracles that I'd seen that day. I don't know. But I do know this. What happened next saved my life, and forever warped my faith in humanity. I don't know what the heck Logan was, or what part of himself perished inside him that day, but whatever it was, it sure wasn't human.

At that point Logan was completely ignoring me, but he turned to the boy and forcefully looked him straight in his eyes, "Listen to me Steffen, I want you to take your hands and cover your ears, okay? Close your eyes tight and no matter what you do, never _never _open them, alright? I'm coming back for you, I promise. But in the meantime, no matter what, don't open your eyes. Can you do that for me?"

Steffen gulped fearfully and nodded his head, "Yes sir," he said, trying to summon some last shred of bravery from within.

"That's a good boy," Logan smiled, ruffling his hair. "Just repeat over and over, Logan's coming back for me, Logan's coming back for me, with your eyes shut and your hands over your ears, and it'll be over before you know it."

As Steffen dutifully carried out his orders, Logan turned to me and growled, "So help me Griggs, you had better protect that boy with your life, got it? Or I swear this will be your last day on Earth."

My hands were so sweaty that I could barely manage to hold onto my rifle, but I somehow stuttered out a meek, apologetic, "Yes sir."

With a final nod to us and a deep breath, Logan crouched down low, drew his sword with his still scabbed over and crimson stained hand, and leaped out the window with a savage, animalistic roar that chilled me to the bone. What followed was a bloody massacre that will haunt my nightmares until the day I die.

Logan charged straight towards the ranks of the Deutsches Jungvolk, but they were ready for him. With a silent, efficient composure that chilled me to the bone, the kids fired upon their adversary with deadly accuracy. I saw whole sections of Logan's chest and torso explode, chunks of meat and bone flying through the air as he bellowed with fury and pain. I could plainly see the agony, barely checked by the blind rage that suppressed it, upon his face, but despite the extensive damage his body was suffering, he continued charging straight at the enemy.

My eyes widened with unimaginable horror as Logan's arm flashed to the right, his sword slicing through the air so fast that my eyes couldn't keep up...and the head of his first victim flew lazily through the air, the child's eyes now forever frozen with a look of eternal surprise.

"Logan's coming back for me...Logan's coming back for me," mumbled Steffen, rocking back and forth with his head buried between his knees.

An instant later, Logan's sword dashed to the left, and a spurt of blood arced through the sky as another child was nearly sliced in half. I began to feel vomit well up inside me as I realized that Logan's reflexes were so swift that the poor kid hadn't even realized he was in striking range until he was already dead.

But the Youth were finally beginning to realize the danger they were in, and on the verge of panic, they began to spread out, trying in vain to mow down the samurai warrior who was already in their midst. So skilled was Logan's advance, that he never once offered the Germans a shot without putting one of their own in the line of fire, and before long he had made it all the way to the back of the group, where their commander was standing, rooted to the spot with terror.

"Shoot it, shoot it damn you!" shrieked the officer, screaming at the top of his lungs as he finally began scrambling away from his tormentor...but it was already far too late for that.

Logan had clearly picked the commanding officer as his first objective, a smart decision that would throw the rest of the unit into chaos, and implied that somewhere in there he still had some vestige of humanity left. But what remained of the man that had been Commander Logan was quickly swept away as he cried out in savage rage and leaped upon the German officer as he turned to run, knocking him to the ground with Logan crouching on his back, sword raised threateningly while he glared and snarled at the other kids in the unit, as if daring them to interfere.

By now the officer was scratching and tearing at the ground in a panic, grasping with a mad fervor for anything that might help him escape his assailant, but it was no use. As the helpless officer, who had become so terrified that he was now openly weeping pitifully, begged the bestial, mutilated monster atop him for mercy, Logan quickly raised his sword and plunged it through the Nazi's heart, the officer's final breath dying in his throat and fading away with a nauseating gurgling sound as the light vanished from his eyes forever.

"Logan's coming back for me...Logan's coming back for me," Steffen continued chanting, his shaking voice rising in volume.

I watched as Logan slowly rose, extracting his bloody sword from the chest of his victim, and turned to face the remaining children, who stood transfixed with horror, staring upon the scene before them. As Logan advanced towards them, slowly, deliberately, step by step, one of the kids in the back could no longer take the suspense, and in a shout of pure terror, fired upon the nightmare. With a flick of his wrist, Logan somehow deflected the bullet using only his blade, and with one final roar of fury, leaped upon the nearest children and rained blow after blow upon them as spurts of blood splattered high into the sky.

I don't know why I never looked away during that massacre. I don't know what kept my eyes glued to the horror that was unfolding before me. Vomit had risen into my mouth and my uncomprehending mind could barely keep up with what was going on, but I couldn't look away. I had to see. I had to know. Someone had to be able to be able to tell the story of the terrible fate of those kids.

My brain tried to tell me that it was a kill or be killed situation. Those brainwashed children would have taken our lives without a second thought. But something about this spectacle, something about the way Logan hunted those children like they were his prey, about the way he almost seemed to relish the gruesome scene that only he could create, let me know deep in my heart that what was happening was an abomination, and that God could never forgive me for sitting by and allowing it.

"Logan's coming back for me...Logan's coming back for me," Steffen was now wailing, fresh tears soaking his clothing as his face contorted into a grotesque mask of horror and sorrow.

I will never forget what I saw that day. I saw children get ripped apart before my very eyes, by a man who I had once looked up to and admired. I saw limbs snap like they were twigs. I saw organs and flesh and blood ripped from a child's body and discarded like trash. I heard the kind of hellish, tortured screams that a human being can only make when utter, senseless terror has consumed them, the kind that leaves nothing behind after death but the lingering, ghostly imprint of their own damnation. I saw a part of myself die along with those children, brutally savaged by the same man who was trying to save my life.

When the last terrified plea for mercy had been brutally cut short, when the last body had hit the ground with a lifeless thud, I saw Logan, his eyes devoid of any intelligence or compassion, descend upon the body of the last child he had slain, a primal, almost lupine howl of victory echoing from within his gnashing maw as he stabbed the corpse again and again with his blade. Each time the sword pierced the soft flesh another sickening squelch was heard as drops of the victim's blood flew skyward, mixing with Logan's own grievous wounds. Again and again he stabbed with his blade, and I knew that Logan was possessed of a kind of mindless savagery that he had been forced to draw upon in order to survive, but though he had first used it as a tool, he was now a slave to those same passions. For once unleashed, they demand a toll that would consume one's very soul.

I had already seen it a few times on the battlefield, when a soldier becomes so consumed with rage that they lose all rationality and completely give into their bloodlust...but never to this extent. There was nothing left of the man Logan had once been now. He had succumbed to something basic, monstrous, and primal that lurked within us all. Something that most of us don't even know we have. Something long buried beneath the thin veil of humanity that we all carry within. Logan had unleashed something that dated back to before the first man had crafted his first tool, to before we had claimed mastery over the wheel and the flame. Something dark, something tragic and evil and monstrous and bestial that stalked hidden in the darkness of pre-history and had been all but forgotten during our long, painful, clawing ascent of evolution. That something had been necessary for our species to survive those silent, shadowy, forgotten and mysterious days, but now that Logan had been forced to rely on it for our sakes, it would not relinquish his mind so easily. That force, that monstrous spiritual energy, held his heart in its claws now, and it would never again release his soul from its razor, predatory grip.

Logan had shed all pretense of humanity as he continued savaging the body of that poor boy. He was only an animal now, a monstrous amalgam of man and beast, a hideous, wounded, writhing man thing that was too horrified at itself to live, but was too tenacious and burning with fire to die.

Steffen was no longer repeating the phrase Logan had taught him, and had been reduced to a pitiful, sniffling, wailing puddle of a boy on the cold barn floor, his clothes clinging to him damply from his own blood and tears.

At that moment I pitied Logan almost as much as I reviled him. What he had done was disgusting and evil and unforgivable, but he had become that...thing...in order to save us. Regardless, I knew in my heart that what I saw was no longer human. I still don't know what Logan is, man, monster, devil, or some terrible nameless thing in between...but it certainly wasn't a man, and I would never think of him that way again. He was something lower, something dirty and tainted, something from a nightmare that walked around in human clothing. He was wrong.

And at that moment I could no longer stand to see him that way any longer, "Commander, sir, it's over...it's over," I called out from the safety of the window across the corpse littered field.

I immediately realized my mistake when Logan's head snapped up, glaring and snarling like the mindless beast he had become, his eyes bloodshot with rage, as his hand darted upwards and he threw his katana at me with incredible precision. I didn't even have time to gasp as the blade sliced through the air and buried itself into the wooden window frame only inches from my head.

I screeched in terror and collapsed backward, nearly falling upon the weeping boy beneath me in my fear. I couldn't believe Logan had done that! Somehow, after everything I'd seen him do, it never occurred to me that he would turn on his own men. Knowing the danger we were in, I quickly scrambled to my feet, grabbing Steffen in my arms, intent on making an all-or-nothing break for the door when I heard a soft, broken voice from outside the barn.

"It's...it's okay, Private Griggs," I head Logan say, his tone exhausted and ragged but otherwise recognizable. "I'm okay now. It's me. It's me."

Slowly, cautiously, I swung open the entrance, its creaky hinges whining loudly as Logan was revealed standing in the doorway, leaning heavily against the frame and panting like a wounded dog. He was hunched over, bleeding from at least a dozen deep wounds. All manner of filth and innards had been splayed against the rags of his once beautiful robes as he stood there, haggard and utterly spent. He no longer even dared to attempt a smile, as he knew we had both seen him for what he really was, a twisted, perverted imitation of a man. He was broken, and exhausted, and there was no longer anything inside him to keep him going, but somehow he had saved all our lives, this shambling hairy beast. But as long as I live I will never be able to bring myself to thank him for it.

A cold hatred burned in my heart as I faced this monstrosity, trying with all my might to maintain the last shred of my composure as I asked the only question that mattered, "What...what _are _you?"

"I wish I knew," the thing that had been Logan replied as I noticed silent tears flowing from his clenched eyes to mix with the blood caked upon his face. "God help me, I wish I knew."


	35. Chapter 35

Warning: this chapter contains disturbing imagery.

The Age of Marvels:

Chapter Thirty Five

Captain America

and the

Invaders

Part Thirty Five

_**During the darkest days of World War II, America stood united against the threat of the Nazi Germany war machine. Our Greatest Generation sacrificed everything in order to stem the forces of oppression from overrunning our very planet, led under the fearless banner of the greatest hero of our time, Captain America. Inspired by his courageous example, and with the aid of his misfit band of Invaders, Captain America led the forces of freedom to victory, changing his world forever.**_

New Jersey

The home of Mr. Barnes

"I...I can't believe that..." Colonel Fury said, struggling to come to grips with what he'd heard. "I can't believe Ronin could have...become that way. You always talk about how stoic and composed he was. Even under the kind of circumstances you've described, it's just...hard to imagine."

The old man stared at the floor, lost in his thoughts, his voice a frail whisper of what it once was, "War changes people, Colonel. You should know that better than most. No one ever comes home the same person they were when they left. And Logan...was a much more complicated man than he appeared to be."

"On the outside he was a samurai, the product of a different time and a different people. He was a good, decent man who lived his life by an ethical code of honor," Barnes continued, pensively. "But there was another side to him, a side that he kept locked away. I don't know if it had something to do with his abilities or his upbringing or what...Logan never did like to talk much about his past. But there was something...bestial, something primal about him that he could never quite hide from those of us who he was closest to."

"War does horrible things to people," Barnes repeated, now staring straight at Fury. "And it brought out the worst in Logan. But make no mistake, he saved lives that day. It was an ugly, monstrous situation that he found himself in, and maybe he allowed it to turn him into a monster himself, but at the end of the day, his people lived to tell about it...and that's all anyone can ever ask."

"Yeah...I guess so."

During the silence that followed, the Colonel and the old man could still hear shouts of frustration coming from upstairs as mother and child chased each other around the house in a futile attempt to get ready for the day. Amidst the bumps and crashes and commotion, Barnes took a moment to peek around the corner and up the staircase as best as he could from his position in his chair, as if checking to make sure that they weren't going to be interrupted.

"What's wrong?" Fury asked, curiously.

"I...I don't like to talk about this next part," Barnes explained, settling down after confirming that they were alone, and yet still clearly uncomfortable. "I don't want to be overheard. It's not really...appropriate for the rest of the family."

"I don't understand," confessed the Colonel.

But Fury soon wished he hadn't asked, "I'm about to tell you the story of the liberation of Buchenwald."

April 11, 1945

Buchenwald Concentration Camp

The sign on the gate had once read 'everyone gets what they deserve', but now it had been reduced to just a crumpled ball on the ground. Once those words had perfectly and succinctly represented what life at Buchenwald was like...life at the hands of the Nazis. And now, finally, it had become only a memory, a memory that would endure for eternity.

They had received the transmission just a few days ago, "To the Allies, to the army of General Patton, this is the Buchenwald concentration camp. SOS. We request help. They want to evacuate us. The SS wants to destroy us."

The message had used the word 'evacuate'. But everybody had known what that really meant...a death march. The Germans would herd their prisoners out of the camps and force them to march hundreds of miles across the landscape of Europe without food or water, and often in the harshest conditions imaginable. These unfortunate prisoners who had already been starved and malnourished nearly to death would be forced to travel for sometimes over a week until they eventually dropped from sheer exhaustion and starvation and were left to perish, often being shot or trampled to death in the process.

The Allied sodliers had heard rumors of the camps...of the exterminations. But those stories had not been believed until recently. Nobody had _wanted _to believe them. It had taken their unit three days to make it all the way from their old position over to Buchenwald, but now that they had arrived, they felt an overwhelming wave of shame that bordered on revulsion with the knowledge that they should have arrived sooner.

As Namor, King of Atlantis, stood within the entrance of Buchenwald, the once ironclad sign laying crumpled at his feet, he could not believe his eyes. This camp was a nightmare. No, it was beyond a nightmare...it was hell. It was as if the gates of the underworld had opened up and somehow bubbled to the surface. Somewhere within the recesses of his mind which were failing to cope with the sight that met his eyes, he couldn't help but recall the Atlantean legends of the afterlife, and the unimaginable horrors and tortures that awaited those who did not follow the ancient teachings. But now it was no longer unimaginable, it was real, and it was staring him right in the face.

He would never be able to purge the images of the Buchenwald prisoners from his mind. Their gaunt, sunken faces. Their frail, skeletal bodies with barely enough flesh stretched over protruding bones. What haunted Namor the most was their eyes. Even the eyes of those who were still breathing were dim and lifeless, serving only as mirrors of the death that had crept within them.

At one time they had all been people. Human beings with feelings and emotions. They had smiled and laughed, lived and loved. They had families and friends and jobs. They had hobbies and favorite foods, and each came along with their own unique quirks and jokes and style. And every night they had gone to sleep, secure with the promise that a new day would soon arrive.

But whatever the Nazis had done to them...they almost weren't people anymore, at least not how Namor had thought of them. Now, as he looked over the camp, all he saw were corpses. The ground was littered with the dead and dying, in some areas heaped up in grotesque piles. But what caught Namor's attention even more were the survivors, the walking corpses, for that was all they were now. They were missing something fundamentally human. Call it hope, or faith, or heart, or whatever you please, but it was as if the Nazis had stolen the humanity from each and every one of them, leaving only an empty horror of a shell, a husk, in their place. A hideous, horrifying, perverted imitation of humanity that shuffled along, constantly seeking something that they could no longer quite place. It was these pitiful, miserable abominations that had once been men that the Atlantean found himself surrounded by now.

Utterly overwhelmed with the horror of it all, Namor found that he could not think straight. He simply couldn't not cope with what he was seeing. His men, soldiers under his command, were swarming through the camp, organizing aid for the prisoners, busy at work all around him. But Namor himself was completely stunned, dazed by the scale of it all, the incalculable misery and death that surrounded him.

He felt something welling up from inside him. A nauseating wave of pure revulsion that he simply could not comprehend. Without warning he doubled over in the middle of the camp's courtyard and vomited over and over in front of everyone present. Again and again he heaved until there was nothing left inside, reduced to a shivering ball of a man where once a majestic monarch had stood. Never in a million years would Namor have ever predicted that his carefully constructed facade of pride and superiority could have been torn down like it had, in front of the humans, no less. But this...this hellish nightmare...who could have predicted this? Who could withstand this level of callous disregard for life? It was abysmal.

Rising once again to his feet, the Atlantean grimaced as the stench and pestilence of the place once again assaulted his senses, hitting him like a brick wall. Somewhere inside his shocked mind he registered that his lieutenant was asking if he was going to be alright, but the soldier's words sounded so far away to Namor, as if they were coming through a dense fog. Instead, the King focused on forcing his legs to begin working again, staggering forward inch by inch under the weight of the horror that bore down on him.

Thoughts began echoing unbidden through Namor's mind, as if his subconscious could no longer restrain its own tortured screams. How could this happen? How could the humans do this to each other? How can they consider themselves so superior, so advanced, when they commit atrocities such as this? Why would any Atlantean risk his own life by working side by side with these monsters?

But the one thought, the one damnable, cursed thought that Namor could not banish from his mind, the one that kept repeating itself over and over, was this: rumors of these camps had been circulating for months or even years. Steve had suggested that they investigate those claims, but Namor had shot down the idea at the time. He had reasoned that as far as they knew, these were still unsubstantiated stories, and that every day they wasted on such a wild goose chase was another day Allied soldiers were dying by the truckload when they could have been making concrete progress against the Germans. He had thought to himself, why would a species ever do something like that to itself, anyway? It made no sense. Clearly, the King of Atlantis had severely underestimated the human's monstrous ruthlessness. It would never happen again.

Now the one thought that would torture Namor for the rest of his life was that if it hadn't been for him and his naivete, these prisoners could have been liberated months ago. How many thousands, or _hundreds of thousands_, of lives had been lost because of him? The Invaders could have already saved those people easily. Now all those lives were on his head. Every last one. It was a burden that Namor did not think he could carry.

With his aide still chattering along behind him, the King eventually made it around the side of the next building only to be stopped in his tracks by a sight that he had never imagined. Before him lay what used to be the lavatories for that section of the camp...but now it was nothing less than a mass gave. The ground was littered with the bodies of the dead. Their pitiable, skeletal corpses were covered with blood, urine, and fecal matter as their empty eyes stared, frozen in horror, up at the thick cloud of flies which hovered above the piles of corpses that littered the soiled ground.

Now it was the lieutenant's turn to vomit. Namor's eyes grew wide with terror. It was no secret that dysentery and cholera had run rampant through the camp, especially due to the abominable conditions that the prisoners had been forced to live in. Without control of their own bowel movements, unable to eat, sleep, or find any kind of solace, hundreds of inmates had no choice but to make their way to the lavatories, many of them forced to crawl over the dying bodies of their fellow prisoners, only to spend their last few hours or even days on Earth slowly wasting away, suffering without help or hope atop a growing mountain of human misery and filth.

It was all too much. It was just too much.

But just as Namor felt that he could bear no more, just as he feared that his mind was beginning to shut down from the monstrous revulsion of it all, he heard a faint, frail voice cutting through the fog of screaming disbelief that had consumed him.

"Please...please help me..."

The Atlantean's eyes snapped open. Could it be? Could someone still be clinging to life somewhere within that human cesspool? His soldiers had been finding survivors throughout the camp all morning, was it really so unbelievable that he could have arrived in time to save someone from this deathtrap as well?

"Don't...don't leave me..." the voice pleaded once more.

Namor had made up his mind. Someone was definitely still alive in there. The King strove forward, leaving his wretched lieutenant behind without a second thought. Finally the King had found something concrete to focus on. He had had enough of the feelings of overwhelming despair that he had succumbed to, and now it was time for action. He had drawn a line in the sand. No one else was going to die in this horrible place. It had claimed enough lives, so swore Namor the Sub-Mariner.

"Where are you? I cannot see you!" Namor shouted, desperation evident in his otherwise strong voice.

"I am here..." the voice called back, followed by a fit of coughing.

And then Namor saw him. He was lost deep within the wasteland of death, barely managing to slowly crawled his way through the corpses that blocked his path. He was old, and small...so small, a shriveled wisp of a man. Like all the other prisoners, he was bald and wore nothing but the barest of tattered rags upon his body. There was no telling how long he had laid among the dead, but as he pitifully, excruciatingly, inched his way to salvation, his weak frame trembled and shook like a thin branch in the wind. It was this miserable creature who now begged the King for aid.

But Namor was wasting no time. Heedless of the filth and disease, he charged through the masses of the dead, wading through them almost like a man would wade through a noxious swamp, until he finally reached his goal. Before the frail old man could say anything, Namor had scooped him up in his arms and was already on his way out of the blinding cloud of flies which swarmed over the corpses.

The old man attempted to thank the Atlantean, but Namor would have none of it. As he made his way back to the lieutenant and shouted for a medic, he tried not to think about how disturbingly light the old man was, or how cold and brittle his body had become. Now was not the time to dwell on such things, he told himself. He had promised that he would not allow one more life to be lost that day, and he was going to see that promise fulfilled.

"Where is my damned _medic_?!" Namor bellowed, his voice ringing harshly through the camp.

His lieutenant nearly collapsed with fright as a medic quickly made his way to their position, "Right here, sir. Is this the patient?"

"I found him amidst the lavatory," Namor explained, holding the trembling old man lower so that the medic could have a look. "What can be done to save him?"

Ignoring his intimidating royal commander who was busy glaring down at him, the medic took out his instruments and swiftly set about administering a cursory examination. The old man seemed to be slipping in and out of consciousness as the doctor looked him over. It was clear that the prisoner was in a bad way, but the King refused to believe that something could not be done for him.

After a while the medic sighed and took a step back, "I'm afraid it's impossible to know whether or not we can save him. The patient is malnourished, severely dehydrated, and suffering from the effects of overexposure, among any number of other issues he may be suffering from. In order to have any chance of effectively treating him, we'd need a whole team of experienced medical aides."

"Then fetch them," Namor barked, still clutching the shivering old man in his grasp. "And be quick about it."

At this point the medic began to look apprehensive, but resolutely hung onto his courage (as opposed to the lieutenant, who was practically wetting himself at that point), "I'm sorry sir, but all of our medics are currently busy with other patients. To be honest, we severely underestimated the amount of medical attention these people would need. We're just not equipped to handle an emergency of this magnitude, sir."

"What do you mean, you're not _equipped_?" Namor responded in a dangerously low growl.

The medic gulped, but bravely continued, "What I mean, sir, is that there just aren't enough of us to properly treat this many patients. But don't worry, there's another battalion only an hour or so out with their own contingent of doctors. We've sent for them, and they should be on their way now."

Namor thrust the prisoner out for the medic to see, "This man may not _have _an hour, you incompetent buffoon! Now do whatever you have to do and save him at once!"

Showing remarkable courage, the medic dared to stare the Atlantean straight in the eyes, "As I explained sir, this man is so far gone that there's no guarantee that we can do anything to save him. And every medic we enlist for this task means that one more prisoner we could actually help goes untreated. But I promise, as soon as reinforcements arrive, we will do everything we can to aid your patient."

For a long while Namor stood and glared at the doctor while he decided his next move, "That is unacceptable, soldier. When I return, consider yourself relieved of your rank. Good day."

And with that, the King of Atlantis unfurled the small, powerful wings attached to his ankles and shot up into the sky like a bullet, clutching the old man close to his chest. Namor was done feeling helpless. If the old man's fate rested in the hands of the reinforcement's medics, then Namor would do whatever it took to get him there as soon as possible, even if it meant flying the patient himself.

As the soldiers and prisoners below gaped in awe at the sight of the King soaring through the sky, Namor continued to ignore them, focusing instead on flying as fast as he thought he could, considering the fragile, sick soul in his charge.

Held securely within the King's arms, the old man was dreaming. Somewhere deep within himself, he wondered how this could be. It had been so long since he'd had any dreams...at least any dreams about anything other than a drop of extra soup, or bread, or clothes. It was as if he had forgotten what real dreams were. He had forgotten the stuff dreams were made of. But now, inexplicably, he found that he was immersed within a dream, a lovely dream, one which swept him away with sensations and emotions that had become only the distant whispers of shadows. And before he knew it, he was in his past, watching as the happy memories of his childhood were brought to life before him like a curtain parting to reveal the opening act of a play.

His earliest memory was of sitting on the hill watching the birds. The sun was shining and beautiful white puffy clouds were slowly meandering through the sky. The hill was only a ten minute walk from home, and from it, he enjoyed a wonderful view of the whole village spread out before him. But that wasn't what drew the little Jewish boy there. No, what he liked the most was the birds.

The edge of the forest which overlooked the hillside was home to hundreds of little songbirds, and when the summer months arrived and the weather warmed, he used to spend hours upon hours of his childhood sitting on the hilltop gazing with wonder at them. There was something about how they flitted from tree to tree, sometimes singing to each other, sometimes darting through the sky, all the while fueled by a kind of exuberant joy which captivated the child. He used to sit there on that hilltop, that special place that belonged only to him, and dream about what it must be like to fly, free and wild, belonging to no one but himself, carried by the wind high above the world spread out beneath him. Oh what he would give to fly like that, just for one day, through the clouds and the treetops. What he would give for that glorious, rapturous freedom. Maybe one day, the little boy thought to himself, one day he would know that that felt like. And what a day that would be!

But one cannot remain a child forever, and soon the boy's carefree days of sitting on the hilltop and watching the songbirds became a thing of the past. But as he grew, he kept the memory of those times alive in his heart, and they became a secret part of him that no one could touch. A special place that belonged only to him.

This was a sharp lad, quick as a whip and twice as spry. His agile mind and ready smile made him a good candidate for whatever field which he chose to apply himself. And he decided to follow his passion and become a scientist, dedicating his life to the study of birds. When he was ready, he applied for and was accepted to one of the most prestigious universities in Europe, and for years he studied his ornithology texts most intently.

It was during this time that he met his future wife. She was everything he had ever wanted. They fit together perfectly, and like two pieces of a puzzle, once they were joined it was impossible to separate them. As far as the young man was concerned, she was the most important person in the whole world. They had met during one of his frequent birdwatching expeditions, hit it off immediately, and were married less than a year later. He would always consider those times some of the happiest days of his young life.

The following years were kind to the boy who had now grown into a man. The life of an ornithologist suited him, and he soon became a renowned and respected name in his field. His wife had born him three sons, and they were his pride and joy. He found that the time that he was able to spend by himself, just listening to the birds and watching them fly by his study window, was far too infrequent those days, but he didn't mind so much. For what more could he ask for than his loving family?

Unfortunately, it was at that time that a dark cloud began to form on the horizon.

They had called it the war to end all wars, and as far as he was concerned, it was a most apt name indeed. The Kaiser, in his madness, had declared war upon all the world, and in the process had ripped a bloody swath across Europe that had nearly wasted an entire generation. The optimistic middle-aged ornithologist had thought that when that war ended, his country had seen the end of its suffering. He had never been more wrong.

The war had left his neighboring nation, Germany, destitute and hopeless. Strict international laws had been passed that had crippled its economy and stifled its people. The entire nation was in a state of disarray, but over time, with the rise of its new leader, that same poverty and hopelessness had first been turned into anger...and then insanity.

Germany's new leader was both eloquent and passionate, and within only a matter of years he had whipped his country into a frenzy. This was a new Germany, a proud Germany, a nation that sought to rebuild itself on the rubble of its crushed enemies. War was in the air, the ornithologist (now quite a bit older and wiser) had felt it before. Dark times were approaching, but even he could not perceive what came next. No one could.

It was no secret how the new regime felt about the aging ornithologist's people, the Jews. Ever since the close of the last war, the Jews had served as a scapegoat for the angry and desperate people of the Rhineland. They had been blamed for everything from the ruined economy to the moral decay of society. And now, with the hateful propaganda of their new regime coursing through their veins, the Germans no longer had any reason to disguise their thinly veiled disgust for their Jewish neighbors.

Fear began to grow within the heart of the old man. Rumors abounded concerning the claims and promises of the new Fuhrer. German Jews had been slowly stripped of their basic rights and freedoms. They lived in constant danger, at all times fearing the wrath of their German countrymen. The Fuhrer promised that Germany would soon be returned to its native sons, and that all of the impure foreigners that poisoned it would soon be cleansed. These Jews, he had promised, would be purged from their nation no matter the cost, so that the Nazi party could rise and spread to all corners of the world.

These words seemed to freeze the old man's very blood. It was not the first time that his people had been threatened with empty words such as those, and so he decided that there was no reason to panic at that time. The Jews would weather this storm as they had all the others. Their teachings promised that their faith would deliver them, and so it was in God that they placed their hope. Like his friends and neighbors, the old man had also reasoned that they would be safe from the hatred of the Germans in their home country of Poland. After all, the Nazi leader would never dare to violate the borders of another sovereign country...would he?

The old man's cozy illusion of safety was soon shattered, however, as news spread through his nation like wildfire of the Kristallnacht...the night of broken glass. The genocidal promises of the mad Fuhrer were coming true before the old man's very eyes. The entire land of Germany had been consumed with riots against their Jewish population. Jews were being murdered in the streets by angry mobs while the police looked on in passive approval. Homes and businesses, churches and schools were put to the flame, burned to the ground, or smashed to pieces. Those Jewish families that had not fled the country or been killed outright were being hunted down, rounded up, and sent to the camps. Rumors of these camps had already been circulating for months, and while some maintained that they merely served as temporary housing while the Nazis looked for a new home for the Jewish people, other, more disturbing rumors claimed that those Jews who entered the camps were never heard from again. The rumors claimed that these were not relocation camps...that they were instead death camps meant to totally exterminate the Jewish people from the face of the Earth. However, one thing was clear, it was now illegal to be a Jew in Nazi Germany.

The old man and his family spent the next year shrouded in a fog of false hope built upon fervent, willful ignorance. While war loomed ever closer throughout Europe, the Polish Jews continued to feverishly console themselves with talk about how the perceived coming catastrophe would blow over any day. Surely the worst of it was already over. After all, how could the Fuhrer possibly hope to deliver on those absurd, unrealistic promises of his? Whatever fate had befallen the German Jews was indeed a tragedy, but now that the Nazi's hatred had been appeased, at least the rest of the Jewish people were safe.

The thin illusion of peace the old man had concocted for himself and his family was rudely shattered only a year later when the German army crossed the border into Poland as part of a massive military campaign that would sweep across the whole of Europe. The old man and his family were caught completely off guard as the rest of the world looked on in disbelief. In the span of only a month, the Nazis had conquered his entire country. The Polish army hadn't stood a chance.

The old man would later marvel that even then, with Nazi troopers marching down their streets, enforcing their curfews and staying in their homes, he had told his family not to worry. The worst was surely over with. They were going to be okay. The German soldiers seemed polite and well behaved. Some of them would even show them what appeared to be real kindness on occasion. But this was not to last.

Little by little, the life that the old man knew began fading away. Never before had he felt so helpless in the face of such implacable and ruthless evil. All he could do was hold his family close, soothing them with false assurances as their rights were slowly dissolved before their very eyes. One by one the orders came: no Jews out after curfew, Jews were no longer allowed to worship in their synagogues, Jews were no longer allowed to operate their own businesses, and then finally the worst...all Jews were required to wear the Star of David on their clothes at all times.

Their little village, which at one time had felt so safe and secure to the old man, had now become a dangerous cage. Every day new rumors surfaced about how a Jewish family had been executed or carted away to the horrible camps. Food was becoming scarce, and it had even gotten to the point that it was dangerous to simply set foot out in the streets. And even still, the Jews told themselves that it wasn't so bad. They could endure this. Surely it couldn't get any worse.

The old man never forgot the night that the order came. All Jews in his village were to pack their belongings and be ready to be escorted to the newly constructed Jewish ghetto on the outskirts of the village. Refusal to comply with these orders would result in immediate termination.

It broke the old man's heart to leave his home, the house that he had built with his beautiful wife, the place where he had raised his children. The home that had been their last vestige of security in an increasingly dark world. As he left it for the last time, his eyes lingering on the picturesque house, it struck him how tragically empty and hollow it seemed as his family staggered down the street, burdened as they were with all their possessions.

Despite it all. Despite the fact that they were now confined to a large, glorified prison, the overwhelming opinion of the resident Jews was still optimistic. Yes, their homes had been taken from them, along with most of their money and belongings, but at least they were all together, and in a way they actually felt much safer than they had in the community at large. At least in the ghetto they had nothing to fear from anti-Semitic hate crimes or discrimination. Many of them were happy to spend the rest of the war there in the ghetto, reasoning that eventually when the Nazi regime was finally toppled, they would be rescued and able to resume their lives where they had left off. The old man went along with these rumors just like everybody else, using them to placate the fears of his family, but in his heart he feared the worst. Some of the younger people had even grown overconfident, saying that if this was the worst the Fuhrer intended for them, that he could bring it on. There was even talk of open rebellion amongst the more brash, youthful Jews.

But the old man, along with many of the other respected elders, knew all too well the cost of rebellion. Countless lives would be lost to the Germans, who were far too well equipped and trained for them to defeat. No, it would be wiser for them to bear the situation for the time being. They had everything they needed to survive, and what they still lacked, they could often negotiate with their captors for. After all, despite everything, the Nazis were still reasonable, intelligent people, and the Jews were not entirely without their powers of persuasion or resources.

It seemed that just as they were getting used to their meager life in the ghetto, they were ordered to leave. The old man and his family were forced to join all the other Jews in the ghetto square, and after hours of tense waiting, were concisely and swiftly marched out of the ghetto and loaded onto the trains. Before they knew it, and without a peep of protest, the old man had left every last thing he owned in the middle of the square along with everyone else's belongings. Their last vestige of hope had been shattered. They were on their way to the camps.

The train ride itself could have been worse. At least, that's what the old man told himself over and over as he huddled with his terrified family in a corner of the car. He, along with a massive herd of other Jews, had been loaded onto what appeared to be a cattle car and packed so tightly together that they could neither move nor sit. It was in this miserable, sweltering condition that they traveled for hours upon hours, to an unknown destination. Amidst the weeping and praying of the train ride, the only consolation for the old man was that at least his family was together. If he had his family, he had everything he needed.

But sadly, even this illusion of safety was not to last.

After years of despair and all of the cruelty they had already been subjected to, the old man's worst fears were finally realized when he was roughly thrown from the packed train and herded with the rest of the crowd to their final destination...Auschwitz extermination camp.

As the old man made his way inside, desperately clinging to his family with all his strength, he realized that they were descending into a nightmare. Half starved, barely clothed men were busy working backbreaking and menial tasks under the harsh supervision of their Nazi handlers. Disease, malnutrition, and death permeated the entire atmosphere with an acrid stench. The camp itself was heavily guarded and well constructed, creating an impenetrable cage of misery which would be impossible to escape from. And looming above the entire facility were two enormous smokestacks, billowing clouds of black soot that the old man could only pray were not what he feared they were.

Truly, this is where hope went to die.

Before he knew it the mass of prisoners was being separated into two lines, men on one side, women on the other. The old man looked into the eyes of his beloved wife, their heartbroken souls mirroring one another as they steadily approached the juncture. Quickly, his body trembling from anguish, the old man held her close one last time, whispering the only words he could think to say to her...

"Remember always that I love you. Stay safe, and I will come find you when this is all over."

Weeping uncontrollably, with tears streaming down her face, his wife reached out and shared a final kiss with her husband. For one passionate moment they were together again, two souls intertwined as one, with the rest of the world forgotten. Then they were ripped apart as the guards seized his wife and the old man was savagely beaten to the ground as punishment for his emotional outburst.

That was the last time he ever saw his wife, as she was dragged away screaming and weeping for her dear family.

The old man was carried along the long line of prisoners by his three sons, who desperately attempted to quiet his futile shouts and soothe his broken heart. After the pain had subsided, the old man found that he had become strangely numb to the horror that surrounded him. One by one he and his sons were processed, dehumanized, and made into nothing more than glorified animals by the men who were out to destroy their people. Their clothes were taken and replaced with rags, their hair (their last semblance of individuality) was completely shaved away, and even their names had been painfully replaced by the cursed number that had been branded into their arms. This was what it now meant to be a Jew.

They were made to turn in all their clothes and any valuables that they might still be in possession of, on pain of death. Any who were too old or sickly or frail were further separated from the group and led away under pretenses of 'special accommodations'. They were never seen again. The old man didn't even have the presence of mind to thank God that he and his sons remained together, so demoralized and shocked had he become.

Then the camp warden approached the group. He spoke in a voice that resembled that of a reasonable man, even a man who could perhaps be capable of kindness, but all such lies that had previously shielded the Jewish inmates had already been stripped away. The man said that everyone in Auschwitz would be given a fair deal, and that deal was this: work hard, and they would be treated well. Laze about and slack off, and they would be culled from the herd. It was as simple as that. The Jewish people needed to start earning the German's hospitality, and any that failed to do so would suffer the consequences. But the old man was under no more illusions, the ever present smokestacks which presided over everything that occurred within Auschwitz had made sure of that. They were being worked to death, pure and simple. They were going to work until they were all dead, until the Jewish people were extinct. These were to be their final days on Earth. The old man cursed his long life. He cursed God for allowing him to live to see this day. How could a merciful God let this happen? Where was He now?

Despite everything, it didn't take the old man and his sons long to acclimate to life at Auschwitz. Every day they were subjected to long, tedious, and painful drills, during which they were made to stand at attention for endless hours, regardless of weather conditions or physical ability. Those that could not endure these drills were taken away, sometimes amidst screaming pleas, begging, or weeping, never to be seen again.

Everyone would then begin their work. The old man was lucky. As a well known and educated Jew, he was allowed to tutor the Germans and their families on weekdays, but on weekends he was still forced to perform exhausting physical labor. It was long, backbreaking, heavily enforced work, and he could soon feel his body wasting away under the unbearable burden of it all.

The food didn't help. Their rations consisted only of extremely watered down soup and a bit of hard, crusty bread. Prisoners would do anything, no matter how menial, degrading, or disgusting, just for a few extra crumbs of bread, as they slowly grew thinner and thinner, until eventually they became little more than skeletons, whose sunken, greedy eyes did nothing to hide the fact that they would betray and kill their own flesh and blood for just another mouthful of food.

The old man's two oldest sons were sent to work at the local factory, making munitions for the German war effort. But his youngest son was not so lucky. He was particularly well built, and so he had been assigned to man the furnace.

The dreaded furnaces were the last stop for every Jew that passed through the gates of Auschwitz, and it was within those flames that the old man had come to believe the ultimate fate of his people waited. The youngest son's job was simple. Men and women by the thousands were marched through the inescapable gates of Auschwitz, robbed of their humanity, and then taken to the gas chambers. They were often told that these chambers housed showers, used to keep the camp clean of lice and disease that any newcomers may have brought with them. But this final, despicable lie was exposed when the chambers began spewing deadly toxic gas.

The old man's youngest son could hear every plea for mercy, every scream of terror, every prayer for deliverance, and every shriek of utter horror, as day after day, more and more people met their ends at the hands of extermination. Then, after the last body had hit the floor and the gas had been cleared, it was his job to go into the chamber and collect all the corpses so he could then feed them to the furnace. In only a matter of minutes those bodies, which had been frozen in their last moments of blind terror, would be incinerated and their ashes pumped through the giant smokestack, creating a cloud of death that would fall upon the entire camp in a macabre, dense fog. The very air that the incarcerated Jews breathed was the noxious remains of their own people, and this thought was never far from the mind of the youngest son.

It only took a few weeks for this torture to break the youngest son. The old man, still lost in despair, would never forget the last day he saw his son as they each trudged off to their separate jobs that morning. He had barely given his son a glance as he walked away, but for the rest of his life he wished he'd taken the opportunity to hold him one more time and tell him that he loved him. It was a mistake he would carry with him forever.

It only took a moment to happen. His son was surprised at how sudden the epiphany had struck him. As always, he couldn't help but listen as the deadly gases slowly filled the chamber, but this time he had heard a little girl crying out for her mother, over and over, before her voice suddenly stopped and was replaced with only silence. Later, when he entered the chamber, he found the body of the little girl collapsed in a pitiable pile in a corner. There were deep, panicked scratch marks against the wall above her body, and blood trailed from her fingernails.

Without a word, as if in a trance, the youngest son bent down and tenderly picked up the frozen body of the terrified little girl, and slowly walked her back to the furnace, ignoring the other workers who were moving much larger loads. Ordinarily, he knew that disobeying orders like that would get him immediately reported and punished, but it was as if his brain had shut off completely. The trauma of the past few weeks and months had finally hit him in its bleak totality, and he found that something deep inside himself seemed to have broken.

As the youngest son carefully placed the body of the young girl in the furnace, he marveled at how quickly the flames ate at her, as if they were starving for nourishment just as much as any of the prisoners themselves were. He found himself wishing fervently that there was a Heaven for the little girl to go to, hoping that he had been wrong to have given up his faith in it. And then, without warning or pause, the youngest son simply collapsed into the furnace. He had given up. He had lost the will to live. The madness of this Holocaust had completely overwhelmed him until there was nothing left inside, and in the blink of an eye his life had been extinguished. One moment he was there, and the next, without a sound, like a vanishing dream, he simply wasn't...almost as if he had never even existed at all.

When the old man heard of his youngest son's death, he wept bitterly. He felt a renewed anger and rage building in his heart. A rage which he couldn't help but project the only way that was still available to him, towards his God, who he had followed without question or doubt for his entire life, but who had nevertheless allowed his son to die. The old man would never again believe in anything...except for the unquestionable, relentless power of the Nazis.

However, this new anger over the loss of his youngest son seemed to somehow awaken the old man from his depression. He realized that although he had lost much, his other two sons still remained. As their father, it was his job to look after them and protect them as much as he could. They were all he had left, and as long as he had someone to look after, he knew he could find the strength to keep going...for their sakes.

From that time on the old man was possessed of a driven determination, or at least as much as he could during those dark days. He would do everything he could to keep up his strength, and by using his great intellect and resourcefulness, he was sometimes lucky enough to be able to gather enough supplies or food to help his sons enjoy extra rations, or better clothes, or easier work. Over time, the old man became a source of inspiration and comfort for his sons and many of the other prisoners besides. Even some of the German guards were fond of him. But despite the fact that his poor excuse of a life went on for many months and even years, the old man eventually began to feel his age catching up to him. He was no longer the strong young man that he had once been. His body had wasted away to practically nothing, and utter starvation was never far away. His remaining two sons were slowly withering as well, and one of them especially, was showing signs of a fearful and savage desperation by the time things finally began to change.

Rumors that the end of the war was eminent had been circulating for months. The front lines of the conflict were rapidly approaching the camp at an almost alarming rate. Sometimes the explosions were so loud that they could be heard coming from just over the horizon like a distant thunder.

There was an electricity in the air, an excited kind of expectation that the old man hadn't felt in years. It took him a few days before he could finally put his finger on this elusive feeling...it was hope. What he was feeling was hope. Hushed talk was whispered throughout the camp that it could be any day now before they were free. Any day they would see the armies of the Allied forces crossing over the next ridge, intent on liberating them from their persecutors.

But the Nazis weren't about to have any of that.

The old man's heart sank as the Germans soon made an announcement that instantly squashed any fledgeling hope of rescue. They were going to be evacuated, immediately, to another camp far from the front lines of the conflict. Before the old man knew it, he and his sons, along with almost the entirety of the camp had been emptied. Only the very sick and injured had been left behind without food or water, helpless as the relentless machines of war slowly, inevitably bore down on them.

For a moment, the old man had allowed himself to dare to hope that he and his sons might find a place to hide within the camp, to stay behind so that they might be rescued, but the Nazis had already thought of that. To deter anyone from staying behind, they announced that the camp was to be bombed as soon as the evacuation was complete, incinerating in the blink of an eye anyone fool enough to stay behind, and to erase any evidence that the camp had ever existed. If the prisoners had any hope of survival, they would submit to the evacuation. They were promised that their destination would be a far more lenient camp than the one which they were fleeing.

Without another thought of resistance, and compelled by the heartless, armed guards, the old man and his sons were 'escorted' out of the camp. They didn't know whether the Germans were going to follow through with their promise to bomb the place, nor did they believe that the next camp was going to be any better than the hellhole they had just left, but there was no question in anyone's mind that this would most likely be their final journey.

They'd heard the rumors. They'd talked to the survivors. When the Germans said the word 'evacuation', what they really meant was 'death march'. They would be traveling hundreds of miles, on foot, across the span of Europe, until they reached the next camp. They would be provided no food or water, and would be given very few breaks. The journey may take days, or over a week, and any stragglers would be shot on sight or trampled beneath the apathetic feet of the rest of the herd. The old man fervently wished that he still believed in God so that he would have someone to pray to, because despite all the death that he had been surrounded by for the past few years, he had never been more scared than he was at that moment.

The march across the snowy fields of Europe was everything he had feared. They jogged along at the mercy of the German guards for hours upon hours upon hours. Those that stumbled or fell were immediately killed, for as the march dragged on, shots were fired over and over again, each one ending another life, leaving a trampled corpse to lie in the middle of the road, abandoned and forgotten.

Soon the old man lost all feeling in his feet and legs, and the rest of his body presently followed. He began to lag behind at the back of the group, quickly losing sight of his two younger, stronger sons. He hadn't even the strength to call out to them for help, but somewhere deep inside his numb heart, he felt a growing sense of sorrow because not once did they ever look back to check on him. They were too far gone, his two sons. After several years of torture, he no longer even felt like their father. They rarely spoke, or hardly ever even made eye contact. They were men no longer. They didn't even feel like human beings. They were numb to the world, numb to the victims they had spent years living with who were being shot down in their exhaustion as their trek continued. The old man found himself staring at a body on the ground as he passed by, not even recognizing that it might have been all that was left of a friend until he had already gone, and even then, he had been unable to find a place in his heart that could still care.

After three days of travel, with no food and few breaks, the convoy (which had become alarmingly smaller) stopped in an abandoned village. The guards took no notice of the prisoners as they surrounded the town in order to keep watch, while the old man collapsed where he stood in the snow and a deep, troubled sleep claimed him.

He awake hours later, in the dead of night, to find that many of those that had followed his example and dropped in the snow to sleep had frozen to death. They no longer had the strength required to awaken, and had passed away in their slumber. Now they were merely cold, emaciated corpses, half buried in the fallen snow.

As the old man painfully rose to find shelter, he realized that whatever the village had been before, it had now been transformed into a ghost town. It was impossible to tell who was alive or dead among the hordes of prisoners who had collapsed in the streets, for not a single one of them still moved. The snow seemed to mute any noises that were made and the moonlight, illuminated by the snowbanks, cast an eery glow on the bony bodies that littered the tiny village. The old man shivered uncontrollably as he made his way through the back allies of the town. It was as if he could feel the specter of death itself, patiently stalking him, waiting for his time to strike. But the old man tried to focus instead on finding his sons. He had to know whether they were alive or dead. He had to.

A fair distance from the hamlet's main roads, the old man began to hear noises, as if from a struggle, coming from one of the smaller houses on the outskirts of the village. As quickly as he could, he made his way to the house, stealthily peeking in through the window in case there was danger about.

What he saw haunted his dreams for the rest of his life.

The small house was infested with the bodies of the dead. But if the blood which covered the floor was any indication, these men had not died of exhaustion or starvation. No, their lives had been claimed by a fierce conflict, one that both his sons were now inextricably involved in.

Of the nearly dozen men that had stumbled upon the house, only the old man's two sons were still alive, and they were now locked in a barbaric, murderous struggle that clearly only one of them could walk away from. The old man cast his eyes around the house in an effort to discern what had caused the fight, until he saw the small hole in the floor and the food hidden inside that had been spread about by the prisoners who had discovered it.

There wasn't much food to be had, and it was obvious that the fight had started over the few edible morsels that had been preserved within the small hole. Almost certainly it had been squirreled away by some poor family who had been desperate enough to go to such lengths to save some meager rations of food from the ravenous, insatiable mouths of the Nazi armed forces who still marched across the land. Now almost a dozen men had lost their lives over a savage, maddened struggle for only a few scraps of bread and rotten meat. And if he didn't do something quickly, one of his sons would be counted among their number.

But it was already too late. As the old man rushed to the door, the intense cold forgotten in his blind panic to save his sons, he saw one of them stun the other with a crushing blow. Unable to recover soon enough, the old man watched helplessly while his oldest son killed his own brother by mercilessly reaching around and snapping his neck with a savage jerk. The old man felt tears welling up as he beheld his eldest son as he fell upon the scraps of food and wolfed them down with a wild, animalistic glint in his eyes. He hadn't even waited for his brother's body to hit the floor, for he had already forgotten his sibling. His brother's memory had already been completely erased by his desperate need to survive.

The old man stared on in horror. How had it come to this? How could this have happened? Had his son really killed his own brother in cold blood, over a meaningless piece of bread?

Fraught with grief and heartache, the old man turned and staggered away from the grisly hovel as fast as he could, his mind feeling as if it was about to shatter from the images which played through it again and again, as he collapsed in a snowy ditch next to a barn for the rest of the night, sobbing uncontrollably in his miserable, shivering state.

He didn't know how many hours had passed until he rose again. He couldn't know. He had lost all sense of time. But at some point, long hours after the last tear had creased his cheek and he found himself unable to shed any more, the call came up from the German guards surrounding the town, and the old man rose, unthinking, automatically, from his spot in the snow.

He did not know why he rose up, for he no longer had the willpower to keep going. The old man had just spent so many years mindlessly responding to orders that his body had risen without his permission, and was now staggering towards the mass of other survivors in the center of town.

No one in the pathetic, starving, ragged band had noticed when the train had arrived, or indeed that there had been train tracks running through the town at all, but when the guards motioned for them to enter, they did so without a second thought.

Years ago, when the old man and his family had arrived at Auschwitz, they had done so in a car so packed with people that they had not been able to move or sometimes even breathe. This was no longer the case. Now only a bare dozen people had been herded into the car with the old man, and each had more than enough room to sit and stare while their energy slowly drained from their exhausted, malnourished, skeletal frames.

As the last leg of their journey began and the train lurched into motion, it took a while for the old man to realize that his last remaining son was staring at him from the opposite end of the car with dark eyes that glittered soullessly from the shadows. Each of the remaining men had collapsed into a sitting position in their respective corners, but not a word passed between them. The old man felt nothing but revulsion and hatred for his eldest son now. He found that the apathy which for so long had fallen upon his heart had now been replaced by an unrelenting, passionate hatred. His eldest son had killed his brother before his father's very eyes, over a measly piece of bread. And the old man could no longer restrain himself from cursing his one remaining family member with all the fire he still had left within his heart. He no longer cared what God wanted, he no longer cared what people thought or what useless morals dictated, he cursed his son, hoping only that when he died, and he would indeed die along with them all very soon, that he would go straight to Hell, forever to burn in its flames for all eternity in punishment for his unspeakable, unforgivable crime.

As he stared at the one who used to be his son, he found that he could no longer find any shred of humanity within his eyes. Where once there had been kindness, compassion, and empathy, there was now a black void, without any feelings or emotion. It suddenly struck the old man that he'd seen eyes like that before, those of the wild dogs which had sometimes roamed through the village of his youth. Those mongrels had been savage, half-starving beasts, monsters who would have done anything, _anything_, no matter how barbaric, for just a single scrap of food. And as he gazed into the dead eyes of the last of his family, the old man knew that his son had been turned into just such a monster...and the old man wondered if he was so very different from his son after all.

During the train ride they were scheduled to make one stop at a still flourishing city on the way to the camp. The prisoners had not eaten at that point for almost a week, and so they were shocked out of their stupor as scraps of bread were thrown into their car from the outside, among the jeering and cruel laughter of the villagers.

In an instant, the atmosphere of the car changed as the desperate prisoners leaped into action, each coveting a different scrap of bread. Before he could think or do anything to stop himself, the old man, nearly driven out of his mind by hunger, found himself scrambling in a mad fury for a single piece of stale bread, slobbering over himself as an uncontrollable rivulet of saliva dribbled down from his mouth.

The old man yelped in surprise as he was forced back by a painful, sudden blow to the head. He had been just about to reach for the bread scrap, but he had now collapsed back to the floor, shocked out of his mad panic by the unexpected attack.

The old man's eyes widened as he saw that the one who had struck him was his insane son, a wicked grin spread across his face and his red-veined eyes wide with madness as he stared down at his crippled father and reached for the scrap of bread. But just before he could take that first precious bite, his body shuddered and his eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed beside the form of his father, dead at the hands of another prisoner who had sneaked up behind him and was now eating the bread like a dog, curled up in a defensive position with his eyes nervously darting back and forth, on the lookout for any further challengers. All the bread was gone now, consumed within only the span of a few seconds, and as the old man groaned and picked himself up, he stared apathetically at the lifeless form of his last son, wondering if there had ever been a time when he had been able to feel anything for him at all as his eyes lingered upon the look of shock and surprise still etched upon his own murdered son's features.

Before the train continued down the tracks, the guards ordered the bodies of the dead to be thrown from the car. The old man himself picked up the body of his final son and helped take it to the door. He stared down at his son with a scowl as he prepared to pitch him over the side, and found that he did not even recognize the face he was looking at. As he watched his son's frozen corpse hit the sidewalk, try as he might, he felt not a single instant of pity for him. He no longer recognized his own son...and he no longer recognized himself.

The old man had no memory of how much longer the train journey lasted, all he remembered was that his entire existence had been consumed by one singular feeling. He felt alone. Truly, utterly alone in a nightmarish, twisted world of hatred and death. As his mind began to drift further and further away from reality and his strength finally began to abandon him, he realized how ironic his situation truly was. All his life he had believed in the hollow and empty promises of God, the same kind of promises that he had repeated over and over again to his own family. Promises of safety and love. Promises of protection and life. Ultimately...promises that he had no power whatsoever to enforce. He had once had faith in God, just as his family had once had faith in the old man himself...but no more. No, the only one the old man still had any kind of faith in was the Fuhrer himself, for of all the promises that the old man had been privy to in his life, the Fuhrer was the only one who had never broken any of them. They were all going to die, just like the Fuhrer had said.

By the time the old man finally marched through the gates of Buchenwald concentration camp, he had become deathly ill. They had remained on the train only about a day longer after the death of his last son, but that was all the time it took for his body to begin to fail. The old man could barely stand and could only walk for short distances. A high fever had taken hold, causing him to sweat and tremble constantly. Luckily, with the front still moving closer every day, the guards were panicking, and weren't enforcing the usual labor with their standard cruel efficiency. It was obvious to the camp inmates that things were beginning to unravel for their captors very quickly...but it was already too late for the old man.

Over the next few days he began to have trouble controlling his own bowel movements, and to make matters worse, he was regularly slipping in and out of consciousness as well. Eventually the other prisoners in his barracks were forced to move the old man in order to get rid of his disease ridden stench, picking him up out of his cot, which he had long ago soiled, (having been forced to live in a growing puddle of his own filth), and carrying him out to the lavatory, which at that point had been so cluttered with the bodies of the similarly dead and dying that they could no longer even come close to getting the old man inside to use the meager and filthy facilities.

Knowing full well that they had just condemned the old man to an indescribably horrible and lonely death, but unable to find it within themselves to care for the stranger, they dropped the body of the feeble, sickly elder atop the disgusting pile of corpses surrounding the lavatory. The old man had tried to protest, but his feeble voice could barely rise above a whisper, and he no longer had the strength to drag his emaciated frame away from the overwhelming stench of death that now surrounded him. And so he had lain there, atop the growing pile of corpses, utterly alone and abandoned for days as he slowly but surely succumbed to the darkness.

During his increasingly shorter bouts of consciousness, the old man found that his failing mind tended to focus more and more on the past. But his memories were no longer the vibrant window of escapism that they had once been when he was originally incarcerated with his sons. No, these were the mere shadows of his memories, and they offered him no solace or comfort in his miserable, feverish deathbed. For while he tried and tried to recall what it had been like to feel free and happy, filled with hope, surrounded by his loved ones, working ever towards the future, and watching his family grow around him, he found that he simply could not remember what these things had felt like.

He tried with all his remaining, feeble might to remember what he had looked like before, when he had hair, and clothes, and still smiled, and looked like a human being, before he had been branded with this hateful tattoo of random numbers that was all he had become. He tried to remember what his sons had looked like, strong and happy, smiling up at him. He wept bitterly and silently as he strove with everything he had to remember the beautiful, laughing face of his dear wife, with her eyes that glittered with mirth, and the way her hair flowed in the breeze, and the soft sensation of her touch, but though he tried as hard as he could, he found that he could no longer recall any of those things. He could no longer recall the face of his own wife, nor of his children when they had still been people. He could no longer recall what he used to look like, or the house that his family had grown up in, or what it felt like to wear clothes, and eat real food, or feel the sun shining warmly upon his skin, or feel the breeze caress his face, or feel safety, or comfort, or happiness, or hope, or love. Those things had been taken from him. He had lost the part of himself that could still feel those things. He had been transformed into a sad, broken imitation of a human being. All those things which had made up the life he had lived were useless and forgotten now. And this was how he was going to die, as the shambling empty horror he had become.

Hiding in a naked, shriveled ball somewhere inside himself, with no longer any concept of who he was or had been, or even the passage of time itself, the old man suddenly thought he heard something. A noise or sound out in the world somewhere beyond the stink of the bony bodies that was his bed. He didn't know from where his cry of response came from within, indeed, he was barely aware that he had uttered any sound at all. It was a plea, from the last part of himself that could still feel anything. A plea for help. Somewhere deep inside he yearned, ached, to be reunited with his family, and some part of himself had sensed that there was someone close by...someone who offered something that the old man had completely forgotten about...mercy.

Breathing short, ragged, painful breaths, his vision dim and blurry, and his mind almost completely numb to any sounds or sensations at all, the old man was barely aware of the large, well built, stern looking man who waded through the corpses for the lone, sickly survivor. The old man tried weakly to reach out for him, but it was all he could do to barely move the emaciated stick that was his arm. And by the time Namor had picked him up, the old man had once again slipped into unconsciousness, his mind traveling back over all the injustices, terror, and loss that had become his life.

But now, something new was happening. The old man felt confusion within the small part of his soul that was still alive. He felt something odd, a sensation that he could not place. Unexpectedly and unbidden, his mind traveled farther back than it had in years. Deep down inside the vast recesses of his memory, long before he had been a prisoner, before he had watched his precious sons grow up, even before he had met his beloved wife or begun his journey into a man...before all those things, he had been only a young boy. Before the responsibilities and obligations of the world had begun to inflict themselves on him, before he had begun to live his life for others, there had been only him, a young, intelligent, endlessly joyful and adventurous boy, whose kind heart and laughter knew no bounds. A boy whose favorite thing in all the world was to sit on the hill and watch the songbirds as they darted to and fro from cloud to cloud. A boy who felt the most alive, who felt the most at home, when he was dreaming of what fun it would be to join those birds as they flew free and joyful through the sky. And for the first time in an eternity, the old man knew that joy again.

The old man didn't know what exactly it was that had awakened him, but the first thing he was aware of was the wind that whipped across his face. He no longer felt hunger or pain, his quickly failing body was no longer capable of it, but somehow, he could feel that wind.

As his eyes slowly fluttered open, it struck him how very bright it was. He was being carried in the arms of a strong, silent stranger, and they must have been traveling quite swiftly for the wind to be blowing by so hard and so fast.

Looking up, the old man noticed how very near and bright the sun appeared to be. As if it was somehow closer than it had ever been. But what caught the old man's attention the most was what he saw when he looked down.

Below him, _hundreds_ of feet below him, the old man could see the curvature of the Earth itself, spread out before him in all its beauty and majesty in a marvelous panorama that swept his soul away and carried it to brand new heights he had never before imagined. Hills and forests rolled away beneath him, and trees and houses and people were just tiny specks in the distance. The entire world seemed different with this new perspective as the old man felt a vibrant freedom and happiness course through his veins. The clouds themselves were beneath him, and all that separated him from the glorious heavens were a few feet of fresh air that kissed his face deliciously.

For the first time in years a smile creased the old man's wrinkly, hollowed face, and laughter danced within his dim, misty eyes. The old man didn't know what kind of miracle this was or what he had done to deserve this, but somehow, by some divine grace, he had been allowed to know true, pure, blessed happiness one last time before his spirit was allowed to move on. He honestly didn't know whether he was even awake or not at that point, so strange was this situation that he found himself in, but in his heart he didn't care. Somehow it no longer mattered what atrocities he had been through, or the horrors that he had born witness to. This was all that mattered. This was who he truly was, this was his soul, free from the chains and darkness that had bound and poisoned it, free and flying above the clouds, just as he had always dreamed it would.

Namor looked down to see the sunken eyes of the dying old man looking up at him as a thin, trembling smile creased his face, "You...are you an angel?" the old man asked in a barely audible, creaking voice.

"Do not worry, it's going to be okay now," Namor assured him, desperately trying to ignore his passenger's obviously deteriorating state.

"Thank...you..." the old man said, his eyes dimming while his tender smile persevered. "Thank...you..."

"No...please!" Namor pleaded, resisting the urge to shake the old man, while in his heart he knew that it was already too late. "Stay with me!"

But the old man's voice was already fading away into the wind as a final, shuddering breath left his body, "I...am...free..."

No one but Namor was there as the old man passed away. No one was there to see the King of Atlantis as his last shred of composure was torn from him. No one was there to hear his long, tortured wail as he clutched the fragile body of the old man to his chest. No one was there to see the King as he began weeping uncontrollably, the nightmarish visions of the day proving too much for his soul to bear. No one could see the Atlantean hovering above the clouds, holding onto the life of a stranger that he had never really had any chance of saving, weeping great tears of sorrow and grief upon the sickly body of the old man. And no one could see those same tears as they flowed and trickled downwards, dripping off the elder as they began their long descent to the ground, sparkling in the sunlight as they reflected the soul of one small old man whose dreams had somehow, impossibly, finally come true in the light of the setting sun.


End file.
